


Sidewalk Closed Ahead

by plaidsuits



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Sexual Content, and suddenly there's a farm, character exploration, its going to get worse before it gets better, soft!villanelle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaidsuits/pseuds/plaidsuits
Summary: Ambiguous canon divergence 02: Villanelle thought she could accept being the other woman, but the kind-of-retired assassin isn’t sure what to do when she develops stronger feelings for Eve. Juggling emotions and sexual appetites leaves Villanelle strung out and clawing for her own sense of normalcy in life.(Finale plot amendment: episode 2.08 is a buffet and we’re picking and choosing our plot points, AKA, Konstantin and Carolyn convince Villanelle and Eve to come back to London to work at M16 instead. Notes on that start in chapter 3.)





	1. part i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's kind of a plot to this. really just an aesthetic and we're gonna just go for it

**part i**  
_and i would fight on a wall  
even though i’d fall and bruise  
it’s still something i would do for you_

Villanelle rubs the pad of her thumb in slow, tantalizing circles around Eve’s clit. Eve bucks her hips, doing anything in her power to create more friction against the hand buried between her legs. Eve squirms on the bed, fisting the sheets between her fingers, as she stares in desperation at the ceiling.

“Fuck, baby, I’m close,” breathes Eve.

Eve whimpers when Villanelle removes her thumb, but groans out unintelligible words when she feels two fingers slide inside her. Her inner muscles squeeze over these digits when they curl to give more attention to her clit.

Eve gasps as her hips jolt forward. Villanelle keeps her fingers firm inside of her, watching as Eve arches her back before collapsing back onto the bed.

Villanelle removes her fingers, bringing them to her mouth for a quick taste, before she’s planting kisses on Eve’s skin. She starts at her thigh then travels up her body, lips ghosting over her stomach, her breasts, the curve of her neck, before finally finding Eve’s lips.

“How was that?” Villanelle asks and pecks the corner of Eve’s mouth.

“That was good,” Eve says, a little breathless, and chuckles in bliss. “That was so good.”

Villanelle chases the laughter on Eve’s lips, and kisses her once more, this one lasting long enough that when she pulls away, they’re both breathless.

“My turn,” purrs Villanelle as she rolls onto her back. Eve pulls herself off the mattress and drapes her legs over Villanelle’s waist to straddle her. Villanelle’s breath catches when she looks up at Eve, seeing how the morning sun illuminates her skin, the mess of her hair, and the sheen on her face.

Villanelle’s fingers slide along Eve’s thighs, finding the curve of her ass, and kneading the flesh there gently. There’s a hiss above her and Villanelle smiles because she’s never delighted in pleasing another person as much as she has in pleasing Eve.

Something rattles downstairs before the sound of the door opening and closing echoes around the house. 

“Oh, shit. Shit, shit shit. Niko’s home early,” Eve whispers.

Eve leaps out of bed, grabbing discarded clothes from the ground, and throwing a dirty shirt over her curls. Villanelle’s head falls back against the pillow, her waist barren and cold, which comes at a mild discomfort since the pinnacle of want still rests between her legs.

“Villanelle, you have to go. Now. He can’t see you.”

Villanelle puffs out her cheeks, letting out a gust of hot air. She contemplates just lying there, waiting for Niko’s heavy footfalls to come up the stairs, and watching as Eve panics. But Eve is already panicking, her movements rapid and urgent as she slides her pants up. Villanelle does enjoy fooling around with Eve, but she loathes seeing the other woman distressed so Villanelle begrudgingly removes herself from the bed and puts on clothes.

There’s more shuffling downstairs. The keys crashing against the counter, cupboards closing, the fridge squelching open. The footsteps shuffle around the first floor before coming to the base of the stairs.

“Eve?” Niko voice floats up before the squeaking of the stairs indicate his ascent.

“Could you climb out the window?” Eve whispers harshly.

Villanelle rolls her eyes, but moves over toward the glass window. The screen was discarded long ago and placed in the garage for this very reason. Villanelle straddles the window and winces slightly feeling how wet she still is, but she looks over to Eve and finds that the other woman is motioning for her to go. She grits her teeth and considers rolling out the window, falling to the earth below to startle Eve. But the drop is high enough that Villanelle wonders if she could pull it off without straining or breaking something.

Villanelle sighs as she slides down the drain pipe, finding footholds in the uneven bricks along the side of the house. She hears Eve greet Niko warmly, while asking about his trip. Something stirs inside of Villanelle’s stomach when she doesn’t hear them speaking, knowing that his mustache is probably against her lips; she could vomit at the thought.

Villanelle rolls her eyes once more when her feet touch the ground. She dusts off her legs before looking up to see the neighbor woman watering her garden. Villanelle smiles as she waves before deadpanning. She stuffs her hands into her pockets and marches out of the backyard.

Her inner thoughts chastise her, monologuing on how she should have left Eve’s house last night. But she remembers Eve’s arm curling around her stomach and how she whispered in her ear to stay. Something stirs in Villanelle’s chest at the memory. She shakes her head before letting out another puff of air. Villanelle goes to kick a rock against the pavement and follows its trajectory when she looks up to see the flashing of red and blue lights.

“Oh, hello,” says Villanelle.

Several police vehicles are scattered along the street as well as an ambulance. Authorities and medical professionals alike stand outside a house, where on the sidewalk lies a blanket over a figure in the exact shape of a body. Blood pools around the edges of the fabric over the concrete. 

“Cool,” murmurs Villanelle. She shuffles forward toward the crime scene when a large man steps in front of her.

“Sorry miss,” says the man, sounding not all that apologetic. ‘Patel’ is stitched above his breast pocket. “Sidewalk closed ahead. I’m going to have to ask you to step across the street.”

Villanelle feels all too giddy and fights the smile at her lips. Instead she wears a concerned look, switching her accent as she asks:

“What happened here?”

“A stabbing. Woman found her husband cheating on her. Please cross the street before continuing.”

“Oh my God. How awful!” Villanelle brings her hands to her mouth in mock horror. “Did you catch her?”

“The woman is still at large, but we’re doing everything we can to track her down and bring her in.”

“I wonder how long the affair happened before she just snapped? Do you think she knew the whole time? Perhaps that she was jealous?”

Officer Patel sighs, “Miss, I don’t get paid enough to speculate.”

“You know, Officer Patel, this happened to me before,” says Villanelle nodding toward the crime scene.

Officer Patel, who was quite concerned with having Villanelle cross the street, drops his hands and gives her a curious look.

“I meant being cheated on,” says Villanelle, chuckling lightly as she does. “Not the stabbing. My wife cheated on me and I was quite nettled at the time. It hurt quite a lot, but I never thought about stabbing her. In fact, I think she considered stabbing me.” Villanelle resists the urge to touch her scar, but instead puts her hands back in her pockets. She stares wistfully at the crime scene before saying, “Enjoy the rest of your day, Officer Patel.”

She crosses the street then, looking both ways, without giving a second glance back.

… 

Villanelle kicks off her shoes when she makes it back to her flat. It’s an open concept design with wood floors and all the posh of being in the twenties. There’s a sofa, a table, and a lamp. It wasn’t entirely furnished before she moved in under the protection and job security of MI6 through Carolyn Martens, but Villanelle had put aside shopping for the apartment because she couldn’t quite sink herself into the London space. The open concept reminded her eerily of her old Paris apartment, but the space here is too big, the ceilings too high and floor too wide and empty. She could do with putting some pieces on the wall or perhaps a tapestry.

Villanelle drops her keys on the counter before going to the cupboard, opening then closing it, after pulling a glass from the shelf. Her fridge squelches open. She pulls a bottle of champagne from the side and tears off the wrapper, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. Her thumbs edge the cork out before it pops and rockets toward the ceiling. The cork falls to the ground and rolls beside the discarded wrappings.

She pours herself half a glass then waltzes into the bedroom. She frowns upon her entrance, looking about the space and finding it to be too clean. The carpet is immaculate, her bed made. She squints, wishing Eve was here to greet her when she came home, but puts the feeling aside as she sits on her bed.

The more pressing matter at hand is the want between her legs. Villanelle sets the glass of champagne down without tasting a drop. She unclasps the buttons of her pants and her fingers work their way down her trousers. There’s a lack of excitement in her movements as Villanelle tries to recapture the feeling she had just a half hour ago with Eve straddling her. But the space above her is empty.

She bucks her hips fervently against her hand and finds release. The climax feels hollow though and Villanelle is somehow much more frustrated after this orgasm. She tears her hand out of her pants and marches into the bathroom. She runs a cold shower, standing under the freezing water for what feels like ages. Her fingers trace the entrance between her legs and she wonders why it felt so unsatisfactory. Her touch travels from her mons up to the scar on her stomach. She presses into it, wishing she could feel the searing heat that was once there, but the wound is far too closed by now. Instead, she feels her fingers probe her abdomen against the knitted flesh before her arm falls limp at her side.

She hops out of the shower and towels off. Usually she sleeps naked, but she wasn’t expecting anyone anytime soon so instead Villanelle slides her silk pajamas over her shoulders. Her fingers work the buttons on the front before she slides her pants up around her waist. Villanelle sighs as she falls back into bed. The tiles of her ceiling are blank, boring even. Empty.

She grabs the glass at her bedside, letting the champagne tumble through her lips. She doesn’t taste much of it while she pictures the reunion between Eve and Niko. Are they having sex on the bed where she ravished and delighted in Eve just the previous evening? She squeezes the cup in her hand as she finishes the drink. She deposits it on the nightstand before she breaks it. Glass in bed is not kinky, just dangerous. Unless Eve wants to do it, of course. She’ll try anything for Eve.

A heavy feeling weighs on her chest, incessant in its nagging, and makes itself known at every opportunity when her heart beats in her chest. Villanelle closes her eyes, wishing for sleep to come quickly, but that too feels outside of her grasp. Eventually she does doze off for a few hours. Images of Anna and Eve dance behind her eyelids. When she wakes up, she’s clutching a pillow to her chest and feels more groggy now after her nap. She kicks the pillow away and rises to start the day.

When she enters the kitchen, bringing the empty champagne glass from her room, she flicks on the overhead light. It’s fluorescent and all too bright for Villanelle’s mid-morning, but Carolyn told her she couldn’t do much tampering with the apartment, which also hindered her desire to accessorize the small space. On her fridge, she sees the decorated invitation to the gala hosted by MI6, where Villanelle knows Eve will receive an award for her work this year. Carolyn told her. The gala will be later this month and Villanelle already has her outfit selected, but has yet to find a date. She was going to ask Eve, but apparently she was already taking Niko.

Villanelle gags, but it does little to quelch the stirring rising in her chest again. She turns her attention from the invitation to the magnet on her fridge of the showtimes for the local movie theater. Her eyes dart from the showtimes to the clock on the stove and feels a smile curling at her lips. She hurries back to her room to get dressed. Perhaps if she makes it to Eve’s house in time, she can convince her to see a movie together?

The excitement bubbles in her chest while she walks from her flat to Eve’s house. A twenty-minute jaunt that she could do in her sleep. Villanelle pauses though, when she comes across the crime scene for the second time that day. There’s yellow caution tape framing the house as well as the sidewalk. She crosses the street without being asked, but searches for the large and uniformed frame of Officer Patel. The body has been removed and they’ve hosed down the sidewalk, but there’s a ruddy shadow against the pavement that refuses to be washed away. An inkling of disappointment fills her in the absence of both the body and Officer Patel, but she quickly forgets it while continuing her mission to Eve’s house.

Villanelle arrives and rocks back on her heels when she rings the door to rein in her excitement. She sees the familiar dark figure pass behind the glass before the door opens.

“Villanelle?” Eve hisses. She looks over her shoulder before stepping outside the house and closing the door. She shoots daggers in Villanelle’s direction. “What are you doing here? Niko is home. You can’t be here.”

All the air evaporates from Villanelle’s lungs.

“Oh,” says Villanelle before she turns on her heel, back in the direction she came.

“Wait,” says Eve. She catches Villanelle’s wrist in her hand and there’s a nervous energy charged at her contact. “What are you even doing here?”

Villanelle looks away, feeling silly for even thinking to ask Eve. She should have called and gotten rejected over the phone instead. At least the neighbor woman isn’t watering her flowers, so she won’t have to witness Villanelle getting rejected a second time that day. The flowers look nice enough though.

“I was going to ask…” Villanelle lets the words trail off because what was she going to ask? Eve to the movies? Why did she even think that was a good idea? “I was going to ask if you wanted to come see a movie with me?”

Eve chuckles and drops Villanelle’s hand. Villanelle’s wrist burns from where Eve touched her.

“We don’t do that,” says Eve.

Villanelle nods toward the bricks on Eve’s house, not quite able to make eye contact with the other woman.

“I just thought you might want to get out of the house is all,” says Villanelle, barely covering the strain in her voice.

“Oh, well when you put it like that. Let me grab my jacket. Want to meet me on the corner by the stop sign?”

Eve nods toward the end of the street. Villanelle strolls in that direction while the other woman slides back into her house. She blinks repeatedly, trying to rein in her surprise that Eve agreed. Excitement wells in her stomach at the thought and she wonders if Eve will let her hold her hand on the walk there. If not the walk, then maybe in the theater?

Villanelle runs her thumb along the grooves in the post of the stop sign while she waits. It takes about ten minutes before Eve comes barreling out of the house with her tote, no jacket and no Niko. Partial success.

“Ready?” Eve asks.

“Yes.”

Villanelle notes that Eve is braless, which is a bold decision considering the slight chill in the afternoon air and them venturing out in public.Villanelle steals glances at the other woman, turning her head abruptly whenever she thinks Eve might look at her. Villanelle drops her hand by her side--their fingers graze, but she doesn’t attempt anything more. Eve either does not notice or doesn’t care, because she makes no motion to grab Villanelle’s hand. She tries not to look disappointed; she tries not to feel disappointed. She tries not to feel anything, but the nagging in her chest becomes more incessant the closer they get to the theater.

When they arrive, Villanelle asks Eve what movie she’d like to see. She picks one brazenly off the list, not putting much thought into it aside from pointing at one with a familiar actress. Villanelle forks over some cash, purchasing tickets for the both of them. She immediately goes to stand in line for snacks, but is thrown when she sees that Eve is not behind her. She sees Eve point towards the bathroom and say:

“I’m going to go freshen up.”

“Would you like any snacks?”

But Eve is already gone. Villanelle’s shoulders drop, but when she approaches the counter she still purchases a large popcorn, a bottled water and carbonated water from the soda machine, and some sweet and sour candy she’s seen Eve eat before. She juggles this all fairly gracefully while she waits for Eve, who comes out of the restroom with her hair down and with a bright shade of lipstick on.

“Oh, hello,” says Villanelle.

“Do you need help carrying any of that?”

Villanelle hands her the bottled water and the candy. She waits for the thank-you, but it does not come. Instead, Eve’s attention is drawn to finding the theater. Villanelle rolls her eyes, but the incessant feeling in her chest seems to be spreading. In tandem with her heartbeat, there is a stinging that pulses in the corner of her eyes. It’s faint, but enough to make her eyes water. Villanelle bites the inside of her cheek as they make their way into the theater.

Eve picks a back row seat, in the middle, which is fine by Villanelle because then she can see the whole theater or anyone coming in. They make it just in time for the movie. Eve doesn’t seem all that interested in the popcorn, so Villanelle places it in the chair to the left, grazing from it every so often. As the movie starts, she watches Eve place her hand on the arm rest. Villanelle recalls the numerous times she’s murdered people-- shot, choked, maimed, but no previous feelings captured her heart like this.

Villanelle’s hand inches toward Eve. Their pinkies touch before Eve opens her palm and allows them to interlace their fingers. Villanelle’s heart soars. She’s so giddy that she misses two minutes of the movie, simply appreciating the feeling of holding hands with Eve Polastri. Eventually her attention does return to the screen. 

Ten minutes of content passes when she notices Eve squirming in her chair. She feels Eve’s thumb brush the side of her hand, almost impatiently. Another moment passes before Eve leans over and whispers:

“So were we really just going to watch this movie or?”

Villanelle turns her head away, the prickling feeling returning to full force in the corners of her eyes. She steals herself a moment before she inhales and turns to look at Eve.

“I was just waiting for you to ask, baby,” says Villanelle. She smirks as she slides out of her seat and comes to kneel before Eve.

“What are you doing?” Eve asks.

“Eve, there is a good reason you wore this skirt,” says Villanelle. She runs a finger from thigh to kneecap. “And it’s not because it’s in season.”

Eve swallows. “It’s because you bought it for me.”

Villanelle cocks her head to the side while her finger ghosts the length of Eve’s thigh.

“Is that the only reason?” Villanelle asks. She brings her mouth close to the inner side of Eve’s legs and exhales. Goosebumps rise along the flesh.

“Because I look good in it?” Eve asks, a little breathless.

Villanelle leans in to place a kiss against Eve’s thigh before smirking against her skin. 

“You do look good in it. No other reason though?”

“Because it’s breathable?”

Villanelle chuckles, trying to keep her volume in check to not grab the attention of the other moviegoers.

“This isn’t even foreplay anymore, Eve. Now you’re just being silly.”

“Oh god, will you please get on with it?”

“Get on with what?”

This time she places her fingers on the other thigh, running the length of them with her nails.

Eve throws her head back and sighs. She mumbles something that Villanelle can’t quite decipher over the backdrop of the movie. 

“I’m sorry. What was that, baby?”

“Will you please eat me out in the back of this movie theater?”

“One more time. I didn’t quite catch that?” Villanelle smirks.

“Will you please eat me out in the back of this movie theater?” Eve growls.

“If I pull up this skirt, will you be wearing anything?”

Eve clutches the arm rests of the chair and swallows. Her gaze returns to the screen.

“Maybe,” says Eve with a certain huskiness to her voice.

“Maybe?”

“You already know.”

And she did. Villanelle can see Eve’s slick folds from crouching between her legs. Teasing does make a little go a long way though.

“You’re so easy, Eve. I ask you to come to the movies and you don’t wear a bra or panties? You’re practically begging for it.”

Villanelle takes both of her hands then and brings them over Eve’s thigh, fingers ghosting over the flesh of each leg once more.

“Are you ambidextrous?”

“Yes.”

“That’s hot.”

A smile breaks across Villanelle’s face without her permission. It takes the rest of her willpower not to snort, but she says:

“Shut up and try not to be so vocal.”

Then Villanelle ducks her head, her hands curl around Eve’s waist and pull her forward. Hairs tickle Villanelle’s nose as she places her face between Eve’s lips. It’s warm beneath the skirt. Villanelle nips lightly on the flesh outside Eve’s lips and feels a hand slide through her hair. There’s a tug, an encouragement for her to go faster, but Villanelle continues nibbling, savoring her time between Eve’s legs. Eve pulls her hair once more, this time harder, so Villanelle complies. Her tongue slides out of her mouth, licking Eve’s entrance, before pushing forward.

Her tongue finds Eve’s clit and begins circling the sensitive flesh. When Villanelle goes to suck on it, she can feel Eve’s heart beat against her lips. Eve’s hips buck against her mouth, so Villanelle speeds up her ministrations. Eve does what is within her power to create friction, rubbing herself eagerly against Villanelle’s face. The jerk in her hips is enough to tell Villanelle she’s close.

Villanelle laps hungrily inside of the other woman, savoring Eve’s taste, the way she writhes, and hearing her try in vain to remain quiet. Eve clamps her thighs around Villanelle’s head before a spasm passes through her inner folds. Villanelle brushes her tongue against Eve’s clit encouragingly as she feels the woman relax above her.

Villanelle pulls out from under the skirt. Eve’s thrown her head back and she hears her utter the word Jesus a few times. Villanelle slides her hands from Eve’s ass to mid thigh, feeling a smile curl at her lips.

“How was that?” Villanelle asks, but partway through the question her voice catches. There’s a strain evident in her words that she wasn’t aware of until after she spoke. The stinging behind her eyes is searing.

“Jesus, it was good. It was so good.”

But Villanelle doesn’t see Eve’s face as she ducks hers back underneath the skirt just as the tears start to fall down her cheek. Villanelle sucks in a breath, eyes wide, before she lets out a shuddering gasp. It takes a moment for her to regain composure, but she passes it off by breathing against Eve’s leg and nipping a little bit more at her flesh. She wipes her mouth and eyes along her thigh before she stands up entirely.

“Excuse me,” says Villanelle, before ducking out of the theater. Her pace is quick as she makes her way to the restroom.

The linoleum in the bathroom is dirty. Paper towels crowd the trash can while some rest balled on the floor. Villanelle presses herself against the sink caked with old soap and pools of faucet water. When she looks at her reflection, it’s through a mirror smudged with fingerprints.

Her eyes are shining. There’s a sheen to her cheeks where her mouth was pressed against Eve, but she doesn’t pay any mind to that as her fingers reach out to touch her reflection in the mirror.

“What?” Villanelle asks, nearly inaudible as she takes herself in. Her lip twitches. Veins rise over her temple and in her neck. She brings her sleeve against her mouth and swipes the evidence away before wiping her eyes aggressively. She’s so engrossed in her reflection that she doesn’t see the woman approach from behind.

She is elderly and wears a gold cross.

Villanelle sizes her up.

“What? Haven’t you ever eaten out your girlfriend in the back of a movie theater before?” Villanelle asks.

The woman’s eyes are wide. She makes the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, then chest, and from shoulder to shoulder before clutching her necklace and walking out of the bathroom.

Villanelle scoffs quietly.

“Gross. She didn’t even wash her hands” 

Villanelle sniffs and grabs some paper towels to help with her face. Once presentable, she exits the bathroom to find Eve waiting for her outside. She looks up from her phone and smiles.

“Ready to go?” Eve asks.

Villanelle looks between her and the theater door.

“Did you not want to finish the movie?” Villanelle asks.

“Oh. Did you?”

“No.”

“Well, okay then. Let’s head out.”

Villanelle pauses as Eve makes her way to the door. For a moment, her feet feel like cement and its hard to follow. Eve turns.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” lies Villanelle.

She just really wanted to hold Eve’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Sigaroo for helping this fool with their writing.
> 
> Thank you all for reading.


	2. part ii

**part ii**  
_a subtle change in the wind  
i know something’s going to move  
something i could never blame on you_

Lilith’s Table, a French-style restaurant, is held up by rose marble pillars curving into large archways where chandeliers hang from the center. Tables for two are lined with salmon linens, set with polished silverware, and framed by dark cherry wood chairs. Fifteen tables sit vacant in the back of the restaurant, save for one where Villanelle waits expectantly. Her fingers drum against the tablecloth as she searches through the archway ahead. The rest of the restaurant is lively. Waitstaff bustle from table to table. Couples file in and sit down. They stare shyly at one another, make polite conversation, and share laughs.

Villanelle watches their mouths move, but doesn’t focus on a particular couple for too long. She rented only the back half of the restaurant for a private evening because of the limitations of her new budget. A year ago perhaps, she would have bought out the whole restaurant. 

The dress attire of the waitstaff is black slacks and a white button-up. Villanelle reminisces briefly on the cute little outfits, considering the occasions where she wore something similar. Her dress for the evening includes a crisp, pink IRO suit with a black button-down. The top three buttons are unclasped to reveal just enough cleavage as well as the gold chain around her neck.

Villanelle flicks her wrist up to check her watch. The motion is enough to alert a waitress and she sees the woman shuffle over to the table.

“Is there anything I can bring for you while you wait?” the waitress asks. “I’m sorry you’ve had to sit here by yourself for nearly an hour.”

Villanelle’s lips quirk up; her vacant eyes rest on the couples in the front half of the restaurant.

“She is a busy woman,” says Villanelle before she looks to the waitress and smiles. “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go ahead and place our order?”

“Absolutely. What can I get started for you today?”

“I would like a bottle of your Malbec, which you can leave corked until she arrives. For her, I would like to order the steak, medium rare, with potatoes and the mixed vegetables. I would like the smoked salmon, please. The salad is fine. Caesar.”

“We’ll get that order in straightaway for you, miss.”

“Thank you,” says Villanelle. She smiles until the waitress is gone. The muscles in her face relax into a blank look. She interlaces her fingers together and rests her hands on the table. Her eyes flick to her wristwatch more than she would ever admit. At two minutes, the waitress brings the salad. At five minutes, the waitress brings the wine. At fifteen minutes, the waitress brings the food. And at a half hour, the waitress brings the check.

“The salmon was delicious,” says Villanelle, as she dabs the side of her mouth with the cloth napkin.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Would you like a box for…” the waitress lets the sentence trail off as she motions to the untouched plate across from Villanelle.

“That would be lovely.”

The waitress turns, but pauses before she comes back to the table.

“I am sorry that your date didn’t turn up. For what it’s worth, I think you look great and whoever she is, she’s missing out.”

Villanelle lets out a bark of laughter before she leans back in the chair.

“It’s okay,” says Villanelle with a sigh. “She’s married and is probably having dinner with her husband right now.”

“Oh.” 

The waitress opens her mouth, turning a light shade of pink, before she retreats back to the kitchen without another word.

Villanelle slouches over the table, placing her chin in the palm of her hand.

“I sure am missing out,” mumbles Villanelle.

Eventually, the waitress brings a box and a bag. 

“Thank you for joining us.”

“No, thank you.” Villanelle rises from her seat and strides out of the restaurant. 

The crisp evening air nips at Villanelle’s exposed flesh. Her fingers are cold, nearing the sensation of numbness, while holding the neck of the wine bottle. The jaunt home is fairly straightforward until she encounters a line of people crowding around the entrance to a club. Bodies fill the width of the sidewalk, edging closer and closer to the entrance where lights pulse and the bass is heavy. Villanelle cranes her neck, finding that the line wraps around the block. Instead of fighting through the masses, Villanelle looks both ways before crossing the street and descending underground. She hops onto the tube and it’s only four stops before she gets off to make her way to her apartment.

Villanelle shuffles into the entryway and finds Eve at her doorstep.

“Breaking and entering is illegal,” says Villanelle.

“Carolyn gave me a key,” says Eve, turning away from the door and waving said key in hand. “It’s not my fault that your lock is janky… You look nice.”

“Thank you. This is for you.” Villanelle hands Eve the bottle of wine and plastic bag in exchange for the key. The lock turns simply in her fingers and the door swings open.

“Show-off,” mumbles Eve. “Is there a special occasion?”

Villanelle shrugs. “I just felt like celebrating.”

Once the door closes behind them, Villanelle hears the clatter of plastic against the table and feels Eve press up behind her. Villanelle sets the key on the counter before turning around and encircling her arms around Eve’s waist.

“Perhaps we could continue the celebration?” Eve asks innocently while she unbuttons more of Villanelle’s shirt.

Villanelle purrs in response, but her chest is cold where more and more of her skin is exposed. Eve’s fingers run between Villanelle’s breasts. A certain hollowness claws behind her ribs, but she lets Eve lean in. She lets Eve kiss her and feels the emptiness grow inside her.

There’s a buzzing in her pocket and Villanelle pulls away to retrieve her phone.

“Are you answering your phone while I’m trying to seduce you?” Eve asks, bewildered.

“I’m expecting a call this evening. Pour yourself a glass while you wait.”

Eve groans and stomps away. She snatches the bottle off the table before heading to the cupboard to grab a wine glass.

“Hello Konstantin,” answers Villanelle, cellphone pressed to her ear as she leans back against the counter.

_“Happy birthday, Villanelle. I hope the day has treated you well.”_

“It has. Thank you,” says Villanelle, her tone brightening considerably. Eve gives her a quizzical look while pouring the red wine. 

_“Did you have a nice dinner? Eve did not forget, did she?”_

“She did not and it was lovely. Thank you for the recommendation. It was all so delicious.”

_"When I am back in town, we will go out to eat, okay? There can be balloons and we will celebrate you. Sorry I could not be there in person today.”_

“It’s okay. I’m not alone. I like that you called.”

_"One last thing. Tomorrow morning, when you go into work, Carolyn will want to speak with you and you won’t like what she has to say.”_

“Are you telling me that I should not like what she has to say or you know I will not like it?”

“ _Both._ ”

Villanelle huffs before saying, “Well, thank you, Konstantin. I hope you have a good evening, but I have to go now because Eve is upset that you interrupted her seducing me. Okay, good bye.”

Eve made herself comfortable in front of the fridge and sips lightly from her glass.

“What was that about?” she asks.

“Konstantin was just calling to check in,” Villanelle says. She places the phone on the counter before she comes up behind Eve, resting her chin on the other woman’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing on your calendar. What were you celebrating today? Did you kill someone?” 

Villanelle smirks and plants kisses along Eve’s neck.

“How did you guess?” Villanelle asks.

“Who?”

“No one important.”

“Why didn’t I know?”

“Maybe you were told and it slipped your mind?”

“How did you do it?”

“Eve, weren’t you getting ready to seduce me?”

The fight in Eve’s eyes relents. Villanelle slides the glass of wine out of the other woman’s hand and places it on the counter. The Malbec does not taste like shit against her lips.

…

“I refuse.”

“I don’t remember giving you an option.”

“Well, it’s a stupid idea. Eve and I don’t work-”

“You work quite well under the right circumstances and in the right frame of mind.”

“Consider me in the wrong frame of mind then. Always.”

“I don’t understand why you’re being so obtuse about this. You usually leap at the opportunity to work with Eve.”

“Not in this context,” says Villanelle with a tight smile.

Carolyn leans back in her chair, arms crossed, as she gives Villanelle an even look. A moment passes between them before Carolyn brings a hand up to her mouth to suppress a yawn.

“There. Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me sleepy.”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I would _like_ to know why you refuse my proposal.”

“You’re grooming her! You’re changing her into something she’s not.”

“Am I? Or am I revealing the potential she’s had all along? Are we talking about the same Eve Polastri or are you just as deluded about her character as her husband is?”

“I am nothing like him,” roars Villanelle. She clutches the armrests on the chair, sitting at the edge of her seat, and bares her teeth. “I know her better than him. I know her better than she knows herself.”

“It’s such a curious thing why you’re refusing my proposal to work with her then?”

“Hyperfixation. She’s a perfectionist. She wouldn’t be able to do it unless she had all the details and rarely do you have all the details. In fact, most of the time you have none of them. Could Eve do it if she wasn’t absolutely sure?”

Carolyn chews on Villanelle’s words, tangibly so, while flexing the muscles in her jaw.

“Would you like to read her file?” Carolyn asks. Without consent of a reply, she opens the drawer and pulls out a manilla folder. ‘Eve Polastri’ is scrawled across the top flap. Paper clips, sticky notes, and photos poke out tantalizingly. “Would you like to read the unofficial official diagnosis?”

Villanelle exhales while fixating on the folder in front of her. She grits her teeth, leans back in her chair, and slowly slides her eyes up to Carolyn.

“No thanks.”

“Well, she’s definitely read your file and has quite the opinion of you.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Fair enough. You do leave quite the impression. On paper and off.” Carolyn slides the folder across the desk, toward Villanelle, before opening it. “I called in a few favors and had several colleagues who are experts on the subject weigh in.”

“Ah, yes. The good doctors. Why even bring her into this? Is my work not sensational enough for you?”

“It’s important to have as many pieces on the board as possible. A queen is certainly cherished, but that does not mean a pawn doesn’t have its uses. If a pawn moves all the way across the board, you can even promote it to a queen.”

“Are we just pieces to you? Something to be used? This surely inspires workplace satisfaction. I feel like a valued employee.”

“Oh,” says Carolyn. She blinks several time while taking off her glasses, and sizes Villanelle up. “Is that it then? Is this what it’s all about for you? Feeling valued?”

“It was a joke,” says Villanelle, her voice dropping an octave.

“Was it?”

Villanelle feels the muscle above her lip start to twitch, but refuses to answer Carolyn.

“Hyperfixation,” says Carolyn. “Eve does have a tendency to focus solely on her work. She doesn’t really have space for anyone else, does she? Assigning one more thing to her person would make even less space in her life.”

“Yes, and?”

“Immanuel Kant. Means to an end. Here we are reveling in the means when all we really want is the end, isn’t it?”

“This is starting to get boring.”

Carolyn leans across the desk to close the manilla folder before she lifts her eyes.

“I’ll have you know I am, shall we say, a perfectionist, too. When things don’t go the way I see it, well, what would be the point in that? I do hope you’ll reconsider.”

Villanelle slams her hand over the folder to keep it in place on the desk. Her fingers curl underneath it and she raises her eyebrows.

“I would like to page through it,” says Villanelle. “While I reconsider.”

“Very well then,” says Carolyn. She lets go of the folder all too easily and Villanelle places it in her lap. Carolyn massages the bridge of her nose. “In the meantime, we may have to double your caseload since you refuse to train Eve, which leaves us with only one trained agent in the field.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing. I can handle it,” says Villanelle, smirking at the prospects of her job. 

“It is when you need this volume of people taken care of.”

“I did not know British intelligence was desperate for this line of work.”

“Who said this was for British intelligence?”

Villanelle’s smirk breaks into a wide grin. “Do I get to see the file on you, too?”

“Perhaps over several drinks and a night in Moscow, but I’d certainly have to dispose of you after that.”

“Sounds like a date.”

“Please. Let’s refocus,” says Carolyn, clearing her throat. “Before I give you the new casefiles, I would like you to finish cleaning house with Solomon Gibbs and the Saint Edward the Confessor Parish.”

“What a mouthful. His girlfriend is like thirty years younger than him. Scandalous.”

“So you've read the casefile then?”

“Uh,” Villanelle pauses as she recalls the previous evening, where Eve’s mouth had been on her throat shortly after she was handed the paperwork. “Yeah, absolutely.”

“Excellent. So you’ll see to it that he is finished then. I hope to have this closed within the next two days.”

“I am paying him a visit this afternoon.”

“I will have either Konstantin or Eve rendezvous with you shortly after then. Your next assignment will be working on Operation Ghrisham with Eve. I’m briefing her on that now and she will fill you in eventually.”

“Ooh,” says Villanelle, while bobbing her head back and forth. “Thank you, Carolyn. This has been so fun, but I have to go prepare for confession with Father Solomon.”

Villanelle rises from her seat.

“You don’t think Eve could do it? Take care of someone?” Carolyn asks delicately.

Villanelle looks to the ceiling, resisting the warmth in her fingers to touch her stomach.

“She could if she had the right incentive. A reason to do so.”

“And what is your reason, Villanelle?”

She cocks her head to the side. 

“What is your reason, Carolyn?”

Carolyn hums to herself. “Checkmate.”

“Until next time, boss.”

“Make it a juicy confession.”

Villanelle holds the door to the office open. She throws a look over her shoulder and smiles.

“Always.”

The office door closes behind her. Villanelle waltzes down the long, stone corridor, where voices from other parts of the building echo about the walls. She doesn’t pay any mind to them while she thumbs through Eve’s file. Walls of text sit between photos of Eve, both her face and on-site locations. Villanelle raises her eyebrows when she sees a photo of Eve and another woman, both with amazing hair. They’re in all black and stand outside of a cathedral. Villanelle squints, noting the tears on Eve’s face.

There are details of Eve’s close friends, which are slim to none. Both Bill Pargrave and Elena Felton have red lines passing through their names. More text jargon fills the pages beyond that one, all of which Villanelle doesn’t really care to read. Her stroll comes to a halt when she sees the diagnosis.

_Sociopath, Minor Psychopathy_

Villanelle inhales. She pauses as she reads the words again and again. She waits for a feeling, for something to dredge up from within, but nothing stirs. Her mouth opens as her eyes dart back and forth over the page. She expects anger or distaste over the opinion of said expert doctors, but there is only a muted hum traveling throughout her body. The muscles in her back uncoil when she reads the words for the eleventh time. Her eyebrows come down when something new washes over her. Villanelle feels as if she can breathe, as if she’s taking air into her lungs for the first time in years.

She spends so much time focusing on her breathing that she doesn’t remember leaning her back against the wall. She returns from her absent focus when she hears a new pair of voices at the end of the hall. Unmistakably, one being Eve, and the other she does not care about.

Villanelle closes the file and slides it underneath her arm before sauntering to the end of the hallway. She peeks her head into the room and sees Hugo standing beside the water station, filling a plastic cup. Eve stands next to him, sipping from a steaming mug.

“So how are you and Niko getting along then?” Hugo asks.

“We’re good. Great even,” says Eve. “I went to another one of his teacher gatherings. It was fine. He’s, uh, good and stable.”

“Alright. Sufficient surface-level talk around the water cooler.” Hugo’s voice drops to a gravelly pitch when he says, “How are you and Villanelle?”

Eve snorts. “We’re fine. She’s fine. She’s also really good. She’s just… not as stable, I guess?”

“I think unstable is the word you’re looking for.”

“Sure, let’s go with that. She’s unstable.”

Villanelle schools her features before rounding the corner into the room.

“Who’s unstable?” she asks while batting her eyes.

Hugo looks between Eve and Villanelle before he nods once and excuses himself.

“Why are you so mean to me, Eve?” Villanelle asks with a pout. “I don’t say mean things about you behind your back.”

“Is it mean if it’s true?” Eve asks, setting her mug on the table and walking up to the other woman.

“Ouch. I am wounded.”

“Perhaps a kiss will make it all better?”

“Perhaps.”

Villanelle leans down as Eve leans up. Their lips brush and Eve pushes firmly against the other woman, almost seeming desperate for contact, as if they didn’t spend the previous evening together in bed. Eve tongue runs along the bottom of Villanelle’s lip, gaining entrance to her mouth. Eve presses herself closer. Villanelle slides her hand up to cup Eve’s breast, eliciting a moan from the other woman at her touch.

Villanelle smirks before she pulls away abruptly, and Eve nearly falls forward before she straightens.

“What the hell?” Eve asks.

“Sorry. I completely forgot I had to go confess my sins this afternoon. See you tonight, Eve. Wear something nice when you pick me up.”

Villanelle turns, hearing the other woman curse her, before she walks out of the room. Hugo scrambles against the wall in the hallway, looking very interested in the fliers on the bulletin board.

“Enjoy the show?” Villanelle asks, not pausing to look at him as she continues down the corridor.

… 

Saint Edward the Confessor Parish, a church built in the past century, consists of a small but dedicated congregation. Consistent monetary efforts collected over the past five years from the congregation went toward the renovation of the church's second floor, where they hired the small company, BLANK Construction and Renovation, for the job. Villanelle, or perhaps, Lena Elton, ambles down the stairs from the worksite. She wears a denim long-sleeved shirt, beige trousers, and tan leather work boots. Her hair is tied back underneath the brim of a worn ball cap.

Lena strolls toward the doors to the sanctuary of the church, where through the windows, she can see the rows of pews. A woman steps out of a side room from within the sanctuary, followed by a gentleman in black, priestly robes. He is fat and balding, reminding Lena of Konstantin in another life. Lena shuffles from one foot to the other, smiling shyly at the woman as she exits through the double doors. The woman does the motion of a cross over her person and slinks down the hall.

Lena looks after her and then ducks into the parish. She appraises the pews ahead of her where the priest walks in the opposite direction toward the front of the church. Lena hastily takes off her leather gloves, dips her fingers in the holy water beside the entrance, and makes a few abrupt gestures over her chest as she finds her voice.

“Hey, could I borrow a moment of your time? Father Solomon, isn’t it?” Lena asks.

Father Solomon turns, hands clasped behind his back, and smiles.

“Ah, yes. Are you one of the good people fixing the upstairs? We appreciate your hard work. What can I help you with, miss?”

Lena scratches her neck.

“It’s uh… I need your opinion on something in the worksite, but before that, I was wonderin’ if you still did that talking bit? The confessional, isn’t it?” Lena asks while chuckling nervously. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to church and I just need to get something off my chest.”

“Oh, absolutely. Here, come sit.” Father Solomon motions to the pew beside him.

Lena shuffles forward and slides into the pew. She runs her hands over her legs several time while she exhales.

“Sorry. Just a bit nervous,” admits Lena, flicking her eyes over to the priest as he sits down.

“It’s alright. We can lay all things before Jesus Christ together. What’s your name?”

“Lena Elton.”

“Are you from London?”

She nods.

“When was the last time you attended church?”

“Probably right before me mum died,” says Lena, her voice wavering. “For the funeral and stuff, but not much after that.”

“I see. Well, this doesn’t have to be official by any means. For those who haven’t been to church in some time, I find it easier to just keep things casual. Tell me what’s weighing you down and let’s see if we can sort through it.”

Lena nods and focuses her attention on the stained glass windows when she speaks.

“There is this person,” says Lena, eyes absently darting back and forth, “who has changed my life drastically. They hurt me a few months back and did something that cut me pretty deep, but we’re on the mend. We’re getting along better, or at least I thought we were. She’s been sending me mixed signals.”

“She?”

“Yeah.”

“What mixed signals is she sending?”

“She says that she wants me, but she doesn’t? I try to give her what she wants, but she’s just take, take, take. She doesn’t give anything in return. Nothing I ever do fully satisfies her.”

“And when you say give, do you mean-- Are you,” begins the priest as his neck takes on a shade of pink. “Are you both involved sexually?”

A smile breaks across Villanelle’s face, seeing the blush in his cheeks, before she puts Lena back on.

“Yeah, we have sex. Really good sex, but lately it hasn’t felt so good. Like, instead of feeling satisfied by the end… I just feel sort of empty.”

“Where do you think that’s coming from?”

“I don’t know,” Lena admits. She leans back in the pew and crosses her arms. “I usually feel numb, but this shitty feeling--” Lena claps her hand over her mouth and stares with wide eyes at the priest. “I’m sorry. Can I curse in here?”

The priest chuckles before nodding his head. 

“Okay,” Lena exhales. “Anyway, this shitty feeling just stays. I wake up with it. I go to bed with it. It feels heavy when I’m with her, but sometimes I don’t feel it at all. Sometimes I feel light. Like when she laughs or when she’s not angry with me.”

“Is she angry with you often?”

“Oh, all the time. She’s never happy to see me unless it’s for sex really.”

“What’s the nature of your relationship?”

“We are colleagues.”

The priest looks up at the balcony where white sheets of plastic hang around the construction site.

“Does she work here then?”

“Oh, no. She’s the contractor. The person who organizes it all back in the office. She gives the orders and I follow them.”

“Do you like that? Following the orders? Would you prefer something different?”

“I don’t mind, for the most part. I wish she didn’t have such a big head about it though. She sometimes acts like she’s better? Like she’s superior? Which, I don’t care when she does it to other people, I just don’t like it when she does it to me.”

“I see. Have you told her how she makes you feel?”

“No?” But it comes out sounding like a question than an answer. “Should I do that?”

“How does she make you feel?”

“I feel like… I feel like I’m being used,” says Villanelle. “She only comes to me when she wants sex or wants to do a job, then _bang_ I do it and that’s it.”

“Bang?”

Villanelle chuckles before motioning to her tool belt where a hammer rests in a holster.

“Just an expression.”

“I see. You know-- Now I would prefer if you didn't tell anyone this because what I’m about to share with you, I’m saying in confidence. I resonate with your words because I used to feel that way, too. I felt used by God.”

Villanelle suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, suddenly finding the moment incredibly boring.

“Being in this field of work can be lonely,” admits the priest. “I’m lucky I’ve found a woman who understands and stands by my side anyway.”

Villanelle feigns surprise; she raises her eyebrows. “Are people in your line of work supposed to have girlfriends? Aren’t you like married to God or something?”

“Something like that. But after a few decades, it can start to feel like you’re married to your work and that sucks all the life out of it. Sometimes you have to bend the rules a little for what you want in life to make it easier. Make it passable. Make it a little less numb, shall we say?”

Villanelle squints, nodding her head.

“Thank you, Father. I appreciate your insight."

“Certainly. Would you like me to pray for you?”

“No. No, that’s okay. Thank you. Can I grab your opinion on something for the upstairs?”

The priest nods and follows Villanelle out of the sanctuary. As they make their way to the upstairs, they encounter the walls of plastic sheets. There’s a paper sign on the wall, saying hard hats required beyond this point. The priest motions toward the hard hats resting on the table, but Villanelle shrugs before saying:

“It’s fine. No one’s working right now. I just need your thoughts on something.”

Villanelle pulls back the flap and the priest steps forward. Pews on the balcony have been unscrewed from the floor and stacked as neat as possible against the far wall. Plastic sheets coat the floor, covered in sawdust and other debris. A large, wooden cross lays on the ground beneath a wide stained glass mural depicting Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden.

“What is that?” Villanelle asks as she points at the mural.

“Oh, that? That is a cherubim, an angel God placed just outside the garden of Eden. It protects the garden and prevents Adam and Eve from returning after they were cast out of God’s grace.”

“And it carries around a flaming sword?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Cool,” murmurs Villanelle.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Well, if that’s all, I’m afraid I have to get going,” says the priest. “My girlfriend is waiting for me at home, hopefully with dinner.”

A tinge of an odd feeling bubbles in Villanelle’s chest, but she ignores it as her fingers inch toward her toolbelt.

“Oh, and Father? One last thing.”

“Yes?” he says as he turns to her.

A moment passes between them before Villanelle smiles and, dropping her accent, says:

“Bang.”

The hammer from her tool belt smashes the temple of the priest. His body falls limp against the floor and a pool of blood leaks out of the gash in his skull.

Villanelle sighs; his eyes are closed. She pockets the hammer back in her tool belt before walking up to the priest. She grabs him by the legs and slides his body on the plastic sheet over to the cross. Villanelle lifts the nail gun from the table and starts to align the body over the cross. She pulls the trigger and the priest jolts up slightly, screeching when the nail passes through his left hand.

“Oh, you’re still alive?” Villanelle asks. “Sorry, I didn’t hit you hard enough.”

She lines up his shoes against the base and pulls the trigger. The priest groans and calls out. Villanelle grimaces before rising and walking over to the portable saw blade. She flicks the switch and the whirring of the saw blades echoes around the sanctuary, drowning out his cries.

When Villanelle turns around, the grin falls from her face. She tenses and then-- 

_Bang!_

A muted one at that, as a bullet lodges itself in Villanelle's gut. The small pistol shakes in his fingers, smoke simmering off the barrel before his hand collapses on the ground. Crimson blooms through the denim shirt and Villanelle clutches a hand to her side as she stumbles forward.

“Shit,” but she can’t hear herself over the saw blade or the ringing in her ears. “You’re supposed to be a man of the faith. You’re not supposed to have a gun,” she says to his slack face.

Villanelle grits her teeth, palm pressed against her side, as she grabs the nail gun. She brings her hand away long enough to pull the trigger once more and run a nail through the other hand before pulling the trigger one last time against the priest's forehead.

_Man of the faith_ , she scoffs as she brings her shaky hands to her abdomen and slides to her knees. There’s a moment where she thinks of Anna, of churches, of the gun Anna pointed at her, and Villanelle wants to laugh and cry. But instead, she feels herself sinking against the plastic.

She thinks of Eve.

Using all the effort she has left, Villanelle leans her head up slightly to stare at the vacant face of the priest.

“At least you have someone waiting at home for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im still new to ao3 in the sense of posting, so i changed the rating just to be safe. i have no idea what's going to happen in the finale, but im so mcfreaking excited and hella nervous. that being said, i do not know if this will be a slight or strong AU. again we're just gonna go for it.
> 
> Thank you Sig. Appreciate you always.
> 
> Thank you all for reading. Kudos and comments fill my soul, and I appreciate you all for taking the time out of your day to hang out here. Take care y'all. 
> 
> @plaidsuits on the twitter


	3. part iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was planned without episode 8 in mind. The conversations between Eve and Carolyn/ Villanelle and Konstantin are kept, but both parties are convinced to come back to work at MI6. Konstantin receives information on his family. Carolyn tells Eve how she manipulated her. Content from those conversations will spill a little bit into the narrative of this fic, but will be tied loosely together if I’m honest.

**part iii**  
_well i should find a friend  
they say people come in two  
and no one's quite like you its true_

Villanelle traces the hole in her stomach, the area inflamed and puckered from scabbing. It reminds her of a cigarette burn, like a ruddy, brown bug that sits on raised and hardened skin. Heat simmers on her flesh from where she touches it, shooting through her stomach then down to her back. And yet, she prods and prods and prods. Her finger juts into the wound more firmly than she expects and her hand reels back as she lets out a low hiss.

“Stop it. Why do you do that?” 

Villanelle’s eye flick up to the doctor on the far side of the room. The wrinkles and white jacket do her no favors, but what she lacks in appearance she makes up for in experience. 

“Stupid girl.”

“I am not stupid,” counters Villanelle.

“Oh. I tell you ‘Do not touch the wound when I take off the dressing.’ And what do you do? You touch it. So yes, you are a stupid girl until I decide otherwise.” The doctor strolls toward the bed, carrying a silver tray with a small cup, bandages, and disinfectant. She places the tray on the nightstand and pulls out a pair of plastic gloves from the mount on the wall.

“I like the sensation,” says Villanelle. “I like feeling it.”

“So you’re stupid and a masochist?” The doctor snaps the gloves over her hands.

“I like exploring the feeling, okay?”

“I heard you the first time. Now stop touching it or you will not get a sticker when I am finished.”

“Fine,” grumbles Villanelle.

One hand falls to the bedside while the other moves to trace the other scar on her stomach. Fingering the stitched flesh feels oddly comforting; she appreciates the air in her lungs and focuses on inhaling deeply just for the sensation of filling her chest. Her fingers travel the length of the more intimate scar three times as she breathes. While stroking her stomach, her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror. Several pillows prop her up on the queen-sized bed. Her hair is frazzled, not having had a brush through it once in the past two days. The pallor of her face is accentuated by hollow skin beneath her eyes and the sickly sheen to her forehead.

Villanelle looks away, letting her hand drop against the covers. Her fingers explore the crisp fabric. The bed is itchy. Villanelle wonders the likelihood of ordering some silk sheets for her stay in the MI6 recovery safe house, but doubts they’ll arrive on time.

“Which stickers did you get from the store?”

“You will have to wait to find out. Now lean back.”

Villanelle groans, but leans back into the pillows.

The doctor slides her hands carefully over Villanelle’s abdomen. Her touch is feather light, as if Villanelle isn’t capable of twisting her neck, as if Villanelle is something breakable. Her gaze slides from the bandages on her right to the scar on her left and she sinks further in the mattress, begrudgingly wrestling with the thought that she might, in fact, be breakable.

“Here,” says the doctor, extending the plastic cup.

Villanelle complies. Her eyelids hang heavily over her gaze as she stares down at the two pills before bringing the cup to her mouth. They pass by her lips and she accepts the water from the nightstand. Her playfulness is absent as the doctor dresses the wound on her stomach. Instead of making clever remarks, she lets her body rest heavily on the sheets.

The doctor straightens at the sound of boots thudding down the hallway. Konstantin’s large frame ambles through the doorway. His jacket is wet from the rain and he carries a parcel underneath his arm.

Villanelle slides her shirt over her fresh bandages and fixes him with a serious look.

“Could you excuse us for a moment?” Villanelle asks the doctor.

“Did you want your sticker or no?”

Villanelle shoots up, an expectant look on her face before she winces. The abrupt movement passes under the watchful eye of the doctor, whose eyebrows, similar to gray and furry caterpillars, rise on her forehead in warning. Villanelle shoots her an apologetic smile.

“If I have to come back and rebandage you for the second night in a row, I will start serving you tonics passed down in my family for the past three generations instead of antibiotics.”

Villanelle cocks her head.

“I will eat anything though.”

Villanelle bat her eyelashes innocently as the doctor slides her coat over her shoulders.

“Bed rest. Don’t stay up too late. I will be back in the morning,” says the doctor. She fishes around in her coat before pulling out a plastic sheet. “Oh, and before I forget. I was told your past mission involved crucifying Father Solomon? The poor bastard. Job well done though. His homilies could put anyone to sleep. Hopefully, they’ll bring in someone fresh. Here’s your sticker.”

Villanelle scoots to the edge of the bed to peer at the sheet in the doctor’s hand. Gnarled fingers, accompanied by liver spots and large veins, peel out a sticker of a cartoonized apple. Villanelle deflates as the woman places the apple on her shirt. Crosses, doves, and other biblical symbols are scattered about the sheet.

The doctor leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Konstantin lets down his hood and unzips his jacket while looking to the door then back to Villanelle with a curious glance.

“It’s just an apple,” says Konstantin.

“It’s a bland fruit,” says Villanelle. She brings the heels of her palms up to her eyes, attempting to rub out the drowsiness in her body. “Apparently, they’re out of season. No longer tempting.”

“I don’t know where you get your produce, but maybe you should try visiting some of the local farms if you want good apples? Also, you should be more careful with Dr. Woodman. Her tonics are vicious.”

Villanelle shakes her head and lets her hands fall back to the blankets. Drowsiness gnaws behind her eyelids as she feels the medication take effect.

“Did you bring it?” Villanelle asks, her tone serious once more.

“I had trouble finding it, but yes. And good to see you too, Villanelle.”

“Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so,” says Konstantin, who walks to the window. His fingers pull down the shades, peering out into the rainy evening before turning to Villanelle. He presents the parcel and her hands claw at the sleek, black box.

She exhales, nostrils flaring slightly as she does.

“Thank you. I have one more favor to ask of you.”

Konstantin rests his hands on his hips.

“I’m not sure. I went through a lot of trouble to get this. I don’t know how many favors I can continue to just hand out.”

“But I’ve been shot,” whines Villanelle.

“I know. How does it feel? Good, hm?”

“Jesus, you know how to hold a grudge.”

“And now Jesus has a grudge to hold against you since you crucified that man.”

“He looked like you a little bit. Fat. Balding. Could use help with shopping for a new wardrobe.”

Konstantin looks down at his shirt before settling in the chair beside the bed. He waves both hands before asking:

“Fine. Out with it. What is this favor of yours?”

“Would you,” asks Villanelle as she lifts the lid off the parcel, “like to watch a movie with me?”

She pulls _The Notebook_ out of the sleek box, the very copy she asked Konstantin to retrieve from her apartment, so she could entertain herself while recovering. She pouts and flutters her eyelashes a little bit, facing a look from Konstantin that appears thoughtful. He scratches the hairs on his neck before finally, he says:

“Fine. The popcorn is probably ready by now anyway.”

Villanelle brightens, sitting up despite the burning in her stomach. 

“Really?” Villanelle asks, chuckling softly. “I expected you to say no. Are you really going to stay? You’ve already made popcorn? How did you know I was going to ask you?”

“It’s going to be just this one time. An exception since you’ve been injured.”

“I should get shot more.”

“I do not think so.”

Konstantin stands and opens his hand. Villanelle passes him the movie before settling back in bed. He saunters over to the television, slides the disc into the player, and leaves the room briefly to grab the popcorn. Villanelle shimmies carefully to the right side of the bed, so she’s closer to Konstantin’s chair.

He returns after a few minutes, large bowl of popcorn in hand, and plops down in the chair once more. Konstantin passes the bowl before finding the clicker and pressing play.

“I can’t believe you like this movie,” says Konstantin.

“It’s one of my favorites,” says Villanelle, chewing through a cheek filled with popcorn. “They die together in the end because they love each other so much that they can’t be separated, even in death.”

“Ah, that is a spoiler. This is why I refuse to watch movies with you. And that’s a highly, unlikely way to die, just so you know.”

“Hm. I could have shot you and your wife, just so you know. Then you both could have died together.”

“But Villanelle, I am not dead. I am sitting here with you, watching a movie.”

“How is your wife, Konstantin?” Villanelle asks, lips smacking together as she saws through the popcorn.

“She is fine. Irina is fine, too. She says to tell you hello.”

“How does she feel about you working with me again? With British Intelligence?”

“A job is better than no job, eh? She hopes that I am careful. She hopes that you no longer shoot people haphazardly.”

“Nope,” says Villanelle, popping the ‘p’ as she does. “I am, in fact, the one getting shot now.”

“How you doin’?”

“I feel like someone lit a match inside my stomach, but otherwise I’m doing fine. I would like to get back to work though. Back to Eve.”

Konstantin is quiet for a few minutes, giving his attention to the movie. Villanelle peers at him from the corner of her eye, seeing him churn through some thoughts judging by the wrinkles on his forehead.

“How is it?” Konstantin asks carefully. “Working with her? Do you like her as your new handler?”

A different heat, not similar to the heat over her abdomen, but rather a feeling that licks the inside of her body just beneath her skin starts to simmer.

“Does it matter?”

“Does what matter?”

“Does it matter if I enjoy her as my handler or not? She is my boss. I don’t understand why I am expected to enjoy it or not enjoy it.”

Villanelle’s tongue finds a kernel buried between her back two molars. She passes her tongue over it several times, trying to work the kernel out.

“Oh. So you are not enjoying it then? Carolyn mentioned this when I spoke to her last. I thought she was just pulling my leg, but now I am not so sure.”

“You know, you do a lot of talking when you’re supposed to be watching a movie.”

Konstantin brings his hands to rest on his stomach. His thumbs turn over each other and his focus returns to the screen.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“I think you’d feel better if you talked about it. We do not want another incident like Amsterdam, do we?”

“Perhaps I can string you up by your toes and stab you in the stomach, hm?” 

“That’s not what I’m referring to.”

Konstantin sighs while his gaze travels to the ceiling.

“After you shot me, I was out of it. Condemned to bed rest. This all feels very familiar. Very reminiscent of that. Carolyn had to fill me in on a lot of what I missed while I was out. She mentioned Paris. She mentioned Eve coming to your apartment, hm? Eve told Carolyn that she found your apartment, but didn’t find you. Where did you go Villanelle after you shot me?”

Villanelle hooks her finger through her lips and runs her nail between her molars. 

“Two murders were traced to you around that time,” continues Konstantin. “One of a boy in a hospital and the other of a man living in a residential neighborhood. But why would you be in a hospital in the first place? The media outlets said it was an unidentifiable woman with life threatening stab wounds.”

Villanelle squints, trying very hard to pay attention to the screen. Her hand drops from her mouth. The kernel’s worked its way down, but it’s still wedged between her teeth, making her gums simmer. Konstantin’s eyes are on her.

“And then I find you in this church. I put my hands on your stomach while you bleed out,” says Konstantin, a slight tremble in his voice. Villanelle doesn’t dare look at him. “Your lips were blue. You were so pale and there was so much blood. I hold my hands over your stomach like this and we were in a church, so I prayed, you know. I didn’t know who was listening, but I prayed. I pleaded and while we were on our way here, I just kept looking at that scar on your stomach. It looks so fresh. And I wonder, what happened in Paris?”

Villanelle pulls out all the emotion from her face and measures him with a blank look. A low chuckle starts in her chest before traveling up her throat and she snorts.

“You prayed? For me? Konstantin, you’re wasting your time,” says Villanelle clipping the laughter with a sigh. She sobers immediately though with a wave of her hand. “Besides, you said it yourself. We’re friends. Not family. You are not actually concerned.”

Konstantin swallows.

“It’s good to have someone worried for you, eh?”

Villanelle raises a finger and shakes her head. 

“I do not believe you. If you want something, just ask. I do work favors for profit now,” she says, almost triumphantly. “We are colleagues, you and I, nothing more.”

“Colleagues who watch movies together?”

Villanelle shrugs. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Villanelle.”

“You said it yourself in Rome. I am impressed. You were playing the long game Konstantin. In the end, you got your family and I got Eve.”

Konstantin leans back in his chair. He holds her gaze for a moment before kicking his feet up on the bed, boots and all.

“Let’s talk about her. Shall we? Eve. Do you really have her? Why is she still with her husband?”

The simmering in her flesh heats up and sinks deeper, rooting itself in her stomach. She feels her insides churn as she looks to Konstantin.

“Get your shit boots off the bed.”

“Villanelle, you do not care about these blankets.”

“I do when I have to sleep in them.”

“How are you and Eve? What is the relationship? What did you both decide on after Rome?”

“Why does it matter to you, Konstantin? You do not care.”

“Well, pretend as if I do.”

His voice suggests a challenge and she can only rise to the occasion.

“Eve has feelings for me. We are exploring the relationship.”

“Is it an open one? Why is Niko still in the picture? I did not think you were capable of sharing.”

“I do not share. Eve is having trouble moving on from the old part of her life.”

“Old part?”

“The nor-- comfortable part of her life.”

“Ah, I see. So you lie down in bed with Eve and she lies down in a bed with her husband. Great relationship.”

A familiar prickling feeling returns to the corner of Villanelle’s eyes.

“She loves me. And I love her. We love each other.”

Konstantin chuckles. “Really?”

A moment passes before his face sobers. Konstantin’s boots thud heavily to the ground as he sits up in his chair.

“Really, Villanelle?” Konstantin asks. “Do you not see how she is hurting you?”

“I don’t understand the question. I don’t understand what you are doing. It’s actually quite confusing where this is coming from. You almost sound jealous because I’m giving my attention to Eve.”

“She is just using you,” snaps Konstantin. “You know this. You are smarter than this. She can’t give you what you want and she will continue to take from you. Continue to hurt you.”

“That seems to be the trend.” Villanelle smiles, but there is an even shine in her eyes. “You should leave.”

Konstantin sighs before he rubs his hand down the side of his face.

“I know Carolyn, hm? I know what she can ask of people. I am worried what she has asked of Eve and what it might be doing to you. I remember meeting you after Anna, and I don’t want to think of what you would become after Eve.”

“You should leave,” says Villanelle.

A pale light fills the room as lightning flashes behind the curtains followed by thunder. A few moments pass before the rain outside becomes heavier. Villanelle eyelids feel heavy, the anger in her body doing little to counter the medication.

There’s another clap, but this time it’s not thunder. This slam is far heavier, more tangible, and reverberates through the safe house. Villanelle pulls herself up straighter against the pillows, looking from Konstantin to the door. There’s shuffling in the hallway before she hears:

“Where is she?” The question is muted by the door, but there’s a distinct anger that further extinguishes the energy in Villanelle’s body.

Villanelle lays back against her pillows as the door to her room flies open. The doorknob jabs against the wall, leaving a small indentation and Eve Polastri marches through. She’s seething. Rain dots her face. A few droplets collect at the end of her curls. Eve seems to become more animated when Villanelle’s eyes fixate on the television. Eve reaches over and yanks the cord from the socket causing the screen to flicker out.

“Hey, it was just getting to the good part,” says Villanelle, not having watched a single moment of the movie for the past half hour.

“Why did you refuse Carolyn’s offer to train me?” Eve asks.

“What?” Villanelle asks.

Eve marches over to the bed and Villanelle sits up, trying to appear as tall as she can. The burning in her stomach returns tenfold.

“Don’t play dumb,” says Eve, her voice close to shouting. “Carolyn told me that you refused to train me. Why?”

“Would you prefer to be the one lying in this bed with a gunshot to the stomach?”

“Cut the bullshit. Don’t pretend as if you care. Is this some competition for you? Are you afraid that I would show you up?”

Laughter erupts from Villanelle’s throat, but her breath hitches and her hand comes to her side midway through her hysterics.

“I’m not afraid of anything.” Her voice is meant to be cool and collected, dropping one octave for effect, but the wound at her side coupled with the medication makes her words soft.

“So why don’t you want to train me?”

“Did Carolyn even tell you what she wanted me to train you on? Or did you want to come yell at me just because you can?”

“Tell me,” Eve growls.

“Is now really the time to talk about this? Can you plug the television back in? Konstantin and I were having a movie night and it’s rude of you to interrupt. You can come lay by me though if you’d like to finish it with us.”

“And why would I ever do that?”

A twitch passes through Villanelle’s cheek. There’s an evermounting pressure in the back of her throat that makes it difficult to speak. 

“I don’t know if you know this, Eve, but I was shot within the past three days. Remarkably, I still feel like shit, so is this really a conversation you want to have right now? No ‘Villanelle, I was so worried about you’ or ‘Villanelle, I hope you’re doing okay.’”

“How about you try ‘Villanelle, I’m so angry with you.’”

Villanelle rolls her eyes.

“Yes, but you’re always angry with me. Never happy to see me.”

“God, should I be happy to see you?”

“Konstantin is. He came to check in on me while I’m recovering because _he_ cares.”

Eve licks her lips before she lets out a low chuckle.

“This man? Care about you? Do you know what he once said about you?” Eve asks. “He said that you were a parasite. He said you burrow into people's lives and just make space for yourself. You infect them and don’t leave room for anything else.”

“Hey,” barks Konstantin. “None of that. Stop it.” 

Something cold and sharp constricts in Villanelle’s chest.

“Do we have a problem?” asks Villanelle. She doesn’t like the way Eve is looking at her.

“Yes, we do,” shouts Eve. She points a finger at Villanelle. “You are my problem. All the time. I can’t believe you, of all people, are underestimating me. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Villanelle whips the covers of the bed. She marches toward Eve who shuffles backwards until she’s pressed into the wall. Villanelle’s hand comes around her neck. 

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” growls Villanelle. “You underestimate me, Eve Polastri.”

Villanelle’s breathing is labored. Her palm rests against her side where it feels wet and warm and all too much like it’s on fire. Sweat breaks across her forehead and Villanelle hates it. She hates, and hates, and hates. She loathes her body, how it betrays her. How her hands shake. How there’s always a stinging in her eyes. And god, she doesn’t want to hurt Eve, but she really wishes that Eve would stop looking at her like she hates her.

_Parasite._

_Unstable._

Villanelle turns her head when she feels her lip tremble. She sucks in a breath and feels like she could pass out.

“You are bleeding,” says Konstantin from behind.

Villanelle pulls the hand away from her abdomen and sees scarlet stained in the grooves of her palm. She grits her teeth and removes the emotion from her face as she peers down at Eve.

“Fine,” says Villanelle. “Tell Carolyn I will train you when I am feeling better. Until then, you can fuck off.”

Villanelle shoves Eve against the wall before she stumbles back over to the bed. Konstantin is on his feet in an instant, coming to her side, but Villanelle pulls away from him.

“Don’t touch me. You can fuck off too. Get out of my room. Both of you.”

“Do you want me to get the doctor?”

“Get out,” Villanelle roars. Her throat burns, but her stomach burns even more.

Eve’s face is blank as she slowly lifts herself from the wall.

“Thank you for your time,” says Eve. “I hope you feel better soon.”

“I hope you think of me when you’re fucking Niko.” Villanelle smirks, but feels the rage grow inside her when there’s no reaction from Eve. The other woman simply nods once before retreating from the room. 

Villanelle drops heavily onto the bed. Konstantin walks over and towers above her.

“I did not mean to call you a parasite. Eve does not know what she is saying. I think it’s important that we continue our ta-”

“Get out of my room,” shouts Villanelle.

Konstantin measures her with a look before he turns and follows Eve out the doorway, closing the door behind him. Villanelle allows herself a moment. Allows herself to feel the solitude, to feel absolutely sure she’s alone. Everything in her hurts. She takes a pillow and places it over her face before she screams, but it does little to soothe the aching in her heart.

The shit piece of kernel is still stuck in her teeth.

… 

It is a week and two days before Villanelle springs herself from the MI6 recovery and safehouse. Villanelle begrudgingly sucked down tonic after tonic. There were not enough stickers in the world to keep her in line. Once cleared, Villanelle leapt from the house without a second glance.

She returns to her apartment the first day, finding a few of Eve’s things scattered about. There are her clothes on the floor, takeout boxes in the fridge, and work files scattered throughout the space. Villanelle puffs out her cheeks as she collects Eve’s things, folding the clothes and stacking the files before placing them neatly on the table. She throws out the boxes in the fridge and wonders why Eve would spend time here if she wasn’t here. 

On the second day, she returns to work, which according to Carolyn, she could not have returned at a more perfect time since they are closing in on their target for the Ghrisham operation. Villanelle squints, searching the faces in the room when she saunters in for the first time since being shot. Jess nods, Hugo simply stares, and Carolyn looks simultaneously pleased and disinterested. But Eve is the worst offender of them all, not even bothering to look up from her computer screen when she comes into the room.

And Villanelle could flirt with her, could walk up to her desk and distract Eve, but _god_ , she’s so tired.

Instead, Villanelle crashes into the first chair she sees and spins about.

Villanelle winces slightly, forgetting her side is still tender. She should probably still be lying down, but she could not spend one more moment in that stuffy house.

“Good, you’re finally here,” mumbles Eve, eyes never leaving the computer screen. “We can go shopping now.”

“What?” Villanelle asks, clearly having misheard the other woman.

“We can go shopping. For work,” clarifies Eve, as she finally makes eye contact with Villanelle.

Villinalle spins in her chair.

“And what, for work, are we shopping for?”

“Outfits. Disguises. For both of us.”

“Ooh,” says Villanelle, feeling the excitement bubble from within. 

“There is a budget. You can’t go overboard.”

“I shop with reason, of course.”

“The target for the Ghrisham operation will be in London soon. Carolyn thought this would be a good opportunity for me to go undercover with you and practice.”

“Oh?” Villanelle plants her feet on the ground, and raises her eyebrows toward Carolyn, who simply shrugs her shoulders.

“Is there a problem?” Eve asks.

_You are my problem. All the time._

Villanelle squints, the image of Eve’s face contorted with rage clouds her mind. She clears her throat as she brings her hand up to scratch the back of her neck.

“Nope. No problem. Where are we going?”

“To visit one of Carolyn’s old contacts.”

“Of course.”

“Hugo will be driving us. Are you ready?”

Villanelle nods absently toward the wall. She stands, not looking at Eve because the other woman already seems to be in a mood. Villanelle’s body freezes when Eve walks past her. Simply breathing might set Eve off. The dull throb in her stomach reminds Villanelle of how tired she still is and there isn’t enough energy in supply to juggle Eve’s emotions. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Hugo approach with his hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets.

“You know, I’ve been shot before too,” says Hugo proudly. There’s a suggestive raise in his eyebrows. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

“I don’t think so,” answer Villanelle. “I can shoot you again though, if that’s what you’d like?”

Hugo’s eyes widen and he raises his hands.

“No, no. No thanks. Once is enough,” he says quickly. Hugo looks over Villanelle’s shoulder before ducking closer to her than she’d prefer. “Just so you know, things at home have been a bit difficult for Eve. I don’t think she’s gotten any in a while, if you know what I mean.”

Hugo gestures with both hands in a scissoring motion.

Villanelle means to chop off his fingers, but the undercurrent of a warning in his words is enough to stop her.

“Of course she hasn’t,” says Villanelle, bringing her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Of course her husband can’t satisfy her.”

“Just thought I’d let you know,” says Hugo. “This should be fun.”

He strolls out of the room and Villanelle follows. The walk to the vehicle is quiet. Villanelle cycles through a series of conversation starters and then cycles through them again. She slides into the backseat of the vehicle and furrows her brow as she looks through the window because Villanelle can’t decide on one subject of discussion that won’t make Eve lash out. On top of Eve generally being displeased with Villanelle, she is also, according to Hugo, sexually frustrated, which makes things considerably worse. Every avenue of conversation is a minefield waiting to blow up in Villanelle’s face.

It’s all quite tiring, she decides, because she could listen to Eve talk about anything. She could watch the pull of her lips mold any sentence, just as long as it is one where Eve doesn’t shout or frown at her.

“Did you know they caught that woman who stabbed her husband? From my neighborhood?” Eve asks. But she is sitting in the front seat and her attention is turned to Hugo behind the wheel, not Villanelle in the backseat.

“Really?” asks Hugo.

“Uh huh. Apparently she was hiding away at a hog farm or something. Family owned. She stabbed him like fifteen times.” says Eve, seemingly impressed.

Villanelle furrows her brow, resisting the urge to touch her scar.

“Did you see how I did it when I killed the fat priest?” asks Villanelle.

“Hm. What?” Eve asks.

Villanelle unbuckles her seatbelt before shimmying to the middle seat and leaning forward.

“Did you see how I killed Father Solomon?”

“I actually did not see the scene or photos. Konstantin picked-”

“I know what Konstantin did,” snaps Villanelle. “Do you know how I killed him?”

Eve turns slightly.

“No. Should I know?”

“I crucified him, Eve. With a nail gun.”

“Good job? I guess? He’s dead. That’s all that matters.” Eve turns around and brings her phone up to her face.

Villanelle leans back, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Eve. Are you still obsessed with me?”

Hugo fights to keep his eyes on the road as they dart back between Eve and the rearview mirror.

“What?” Eve asks, chuckling.

“Are _you_ still obsessed with _me_?”

“This may surprise you, Villanelle, but not everything in my life revolves around you.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. Does that bother you?”

“No,” says Villanelle, a little too loud for the small space in the car. She crosses her arms and stares out the window. “Did you know that you forgot about my birthday?”

“I did… not. No, I did not know I had forgotten. Jesus, you could have reminded me? We could have gotten dinner or something.”

“It’s not something I should have to remind you of, Eve. You should just know. You should just remember.”

“Yeah, well, when is my birthday?”

“July twenty-first.”

“Oh.”

The car is silent when they pull up to a curb in a rather shabby neighborhood. It’s sprinkling. When they exit the vehicle, Villanelle looks in every cardinal direction, but can’t find a department store.

“This way,” says Eve. She’s following directions on her phone and Villanelle rolls her eyes, but begrudgingly follows. The trio walks along the sidewalk half a block before veering off into the road where a chunk of concrete is missing from the ground. The fence around the hole is shoulder-high and when Villanelle peers down, she sees two men working on a leaking pipe.

_Perfect place to dispose of a body._

Villanelle’s eyes snap over to Hugo.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Well, I drove,” says Hugo, dangling the keys. “I also have a great fashion sense and am here to ensure what’s being purchased is in line with the operation.”

Villanelle snorts.

“You will not be deciding any of my outfits.”

“He will if I says he does,” says Eve.

“Oh? You know, you’re cute when you’re bossy.”

“Don’t.” Eve twirls on the spot and flashes her with those dangerous brown eyes.

“Okay. Okay.”

Eve turns back around and Hugo shoots Villanelle a smug look. Villanelle jerks her thumb up to her throat, making a slashing motion across the length of her collar then juts toward the hole. Hugo pales before turning away.

They arrive to what looks like a small thrift store, crammed between two buildings.There’s uneven concrete before the door, where weeds poke through the cracks.

“Theatre house?” Villanelle asks, reading the vinyl on the glass door. “Is this really the store?”

“I’ve met some of Carolyn's contacts in stranger places."

Bells jingle when they step through the door. The inside smells like fake flowers; the scent is crisp and tickles the nose. Costumes crowd the racks in long, never-ending aisles. Villanelle approaches the rack closest to the door and reaches out to a shabby dress from last century. Her fingers run against the fabric before she retracts her hand and wipes it against her pants.

“Sorry. Are we doing a MI6 rendition of Fiddler on the Roof or?” Villanelle asks.

“Would it kill you to be professional?” Eve asks.

“I am always professional.”

“Are you?”

Villanelle squints, wondering what angle Eve is playing at because she seems particularly keen on fighting over everything. She’s volatile on any subject between them.

“Yes, Eve.” Villanelle sighs.

The wood floor creaks before them as a large woman saunters toward them. She carries several costumes on hangers, but throws them unceremoniously over the racks to her right.

“Are you Carolyn’s lot?” she asks.

“Yes,” answers Eve.

“Right then. Which one of you is the new weapon for hire that Carolyn is so fond of?”

Villanelle slides her hands into her pockets, clenching her fists tightly.

“She’s the weapon,” says Eve, pointing towards Villanelle.

The large woman comes forward. Eve and Hugo step back as the woman comes to tower over Villanelle. When Villanelle looks up at her, she wonders if the woman uses clown paint for her lipstick.

“Are you?” asks the woman.

Villanelle exhales. “I guess I am.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. Name’s Marnie. Carolyn’s told me so much about you. Very impressed by your work. I’m considering hiring you for some personal contracts myself.”

Marnie shakes Vilanelle’s hand.

“Glad someone appreciates my skills.”

Villanelle shoots a look to Eve, who simply rolls her eyes.

“Right then. This way,” says Marnie. Villanelle follows without question, ignoring the look Eve is giving her. 

They travel the length of the dingy costume store to the back wall where they find a wardrobe. Marnie opens the wardrobe and clamours inside, through the clothes hanging on the rack. Villanelle nods her head once before gingerly climbing inside. They travel down a dimly lit stairwell, leading to a lower level. The air is cool. Concrete is dark and dingy. Marnie pushes through a metal door to reveal a large, expansive room.

Villanelle gasps as they’re led into a warehouse boutique beneath the costume store. The floors and ceilings are a crisp white. Heels and handbags are in box displays cut into the walls with soft amber lighting illuminating the back drop. Clothes are folded neatly on glossy wood shelves. Dresses, silk shirts, and blouses hang on a spiral rack that circles the room.

A portion of the floor is glass, where beneath the surface is an aquarium. Sleek, black fish with white mouths, yellow-ringed eyes, and yellow vertical bands lining their scales glide through the waters.

Villanelle’s mouth hangs agape as she shuffles into the room.

“When you’ve been in the business as long as I have,” says Marnie, “you find contacts all over London. You’d be shell-shocked to see what stores throw out, depending on seasons or if it’s missing a button. We accept the cock-ups and have them shipped here. Loads of it. Most of it sits in crates, until I get my assistant to unpack them. Have a look around.”

A chuckle spills from Villanelle’s lips as she glides forward. Her fingers brush against the fabrics, her eyes glazed over as she takes in the styles and sizes.

“What are these?” asks Hugo, as he stands over the glass floor.

“Pomacanthus paru,” says Marnie, walking over to the white sofa. “French angelfish. This lot was found in the Caribbean. They mate for life and are very territorial. We keep them in separate aquariums for their safety, of course.”

Villanelle feels as if she’s underwater. The words don’t quite reach her ears as she floats from one display to the next. Her fingers run through each clothing item, simply letting the feel of soft fabric grace her palm. Villanelle chuckles once more, eyes alight. She looks at the outfits and then to Eve, feeling her heart nearly burst with excitement in her chest.

Eve studies her, fidgeting on the spot. For once, there isn’t annoyance or frustration gracing her features, but rather a simple curiosity. Villanelle licks her lips once and winks before descending into the clothing racks. She schools her features, wiping the excitement from her lips, and tries to stop the shaking in her hands as adrenaline pumps through her veins.

She’s calculated and focused. She grabs the cerulean blouse, but not the canary. These trousers, but not those. She selects three out of five dresses. No heels are out of the question, determined solely by their sizes. Of course, there are the accessories: scarfs, handbags, and jewellery. Villanelle hangs everything by one dressing room and places things neatly on a table beside it. 

It’s nearing a half hour later when Eve timidly approaches.

“What are you doing?” Eve asks.

“I’m shopping, Eve.”

“Yes, but you don’t need this many outfits.”

Villanelle cackles, holding out a dress and hanging it next to the others.

“They are not for me. They’re for you.”

Eve lets out a breath she’s been holding and brings her hands up to her neck.

“This is wildly out of the budget. We can’t afford all of this.”

“I will pay for it,” says Villanelle with a wave of her hand. “You can have it all.”

“Well, we don’t have time for me to try them all on now do we?”

“Eve!” Villanelle shakes her head and gives her a half-smile. “The clothes will fit. You know they will.”

Eve swallows and brings her hands back down to her side.

“That’s a bit presumptuous,” says Hugo.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” says Villanelle in a sing-song voice.

There’s a flicker. Something passes quickly behind Eve’s eyes, too fast for Villanelle to interpret, but just enough that she’s not surprised to see Eve’s body language change entirely.

“You are not doing that,” says Eve, steel in her voice. “Put those clothes back and focus on the task at hand.”

The smile slowly drops from Villanelle’s face.

“I can buy these things for you. I don’t mind. I can also get whatever stupid outfit you want me to get.”

“Yeah, well, I do mind. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want gifts from you.”

Villanelle furrows her brow, searching between Eve’s eyes.

“Eve, why are you being like this? Why are you being so mean to me?”

Eve scoffs, eyes cast to the ceiling.

“Me? Be mean to you? Yeah, okay.” 

Villanelle looks between Hugo and Marnie, and reaches to grab Eve’s hand. She pulls the other woman away before she can protest. They move about five feet when Eve tears her arm away.

“What are you doing?” Eve growls.

“Can we talk?” Villanelle asks. “Just you and me?”

Eve face softens one moment, but hardens in the next.

“No, I don’t think that we should do that.”

“You are so angry with me all the time. Why?”

“I don’t think this is appropriate workplace conversation.”

“Eve. Please? I am trying.”

“And what exactly are you trying?”

The pressure that’s been building in Villanelle’s throat the past few weeks weighs heavily on the back of her throat. Her chest tightens. Her eyes sting. And she knows she can’t say it, because it is both true and not, but she _tries_.

“I’m trying to be normal. For you. For us. Trying to talk about things.”

“Us? What us? There is no us,” says Eve, throwing up her hands. “I don’t know what you’ve tricked yourself into thinking, but there is nothing between us. No feelings. And you can’t be normal, you’re--” 

Villanelle’s face pinches as a sharp pain shoots through her chest and sinks heavily in her stomach. 

“--a psychopath.”

“Eve, please.”

“What? Am I not stroking your ego enough? Am I not lavishing you with the attention and praise you need to function?”

Villanelle sighs and closes her eyes. 

“Can this not be about the fact that I’m a psychopath, but rather I’m just a person with feelings for you, Eve Polastri? Can I just be a person to you, for once?”

Silence stretches between them. Villanelle feels her heart beat painfully in her chest. Forceful in its contraction. Every push and pull of the blood in her veins reminds her how painfully vulnerable and alive she is.

When Villanelle looks up, Eve is shaking her head slowly.

“No. No feelings,” Eve says softly. She sniffs once before grabbing an outfit off a rack and throwing it in Villanelle’s hands. “Try this on. We have to get going.”

Eve spins on the spot and marches toward Hugo, who is quite engrossed in two sets of trousers that look exactly the same. 

Villanelle breathes. She inhales and it feels sharp. She exhales for the release. When she inhales again, it doesn't feel as painful. She feels and feels and feels until all of it just sinks. It’s draining. Everything in her person sinks through the floor. She turns and heads toward the dressing room.

With the curtain drawn, she takes off her blouse and begins working the buttons of the dress shirt. She’s met with three of herself as she stares at the mirrors ahead. She sees how her fingers shake with each button she moves down. She tucks the shirt into her trousers and smooths out the collar. There’s the tremble in her lips, the flare of her nostrils, and the twitch in her temple.

_Unstable_.

_Parasite_.

_Weapon_.

“Fine,” says Villanelle to her reflection. 

She stares into the void and the void stares back. The tremors in her face still. All the blood leaves her heart and her body feels cold. Numb. Her fingers curl into a tight fist before she brings her hand back and smashes it into the mirror in front of her. Shards of her reflection cut her knuckles then fall to the ground below. She brings up the other fist and it collides with the mirror. She breaks and breaks and breaks, until she sees herself scattered into hundreds of glittering pieces on the floor.

Blood drips from her knuckles to the ground.

Villanelle stares down at a large shard, catching her reflection that is jagged and dotted with crimson. She stares into the void and the void stares back.

“No feelings.”


	4. part iv a

**part iv a**  
_a line in the sand  
show them what you mean_

_“Hi, it’s Eve. Just send me a text when you’re finished or otherwise I’ll worry you’ve been murdered or something.”_

_Beep._

_“Hi, Villanelle. Just checking in to make sure everything’s okay with Aaron. I’m sure it is, it’s just… you know, so I know. I’m sure you’re fine.”_

_Beep._

_“Hello. Just wanted to check in to make sure everything is running smoothly. Please contact me when you can._

_Beep._

The screen fades to black when she taps out of her voicemails. The phone plops against her chest as she sighs. Villanelle lies in the bathtub, void of water, just her person fully clothed. It’s dark; she didn’t bother with the light. The silhouettes of the room become more distinguished with the afternoon sun.

Her body aches; she hasn’t moved in two hours. There are only so many comfortable positions in a bathtub. There’s a pinching pressure in her back, so she sits up. She didn’t mean to get caught up in the wave of thoughts, but they ensnared her and held her confined to this very room.

_I just want to have dinner with you._

Villanelle recalls her heartbeat thrumming in her ears. Recalls the carelessness in which she was caught. Recalls how she just wanted to be close to Eve. For a moment, she considers Eve in bed, how she’s been closer than Villanelle ever thought possible, yet has never felt so far away. 

Is this what everything is supposed to feel like? This aching nothingness? So close to the cusp of having, but really having nothing at all?

Was Eve lying when she promised her everything? Is Eve just playing the long con right now, manipulating Villanelle to do MI6’s dirty work? Or perhaps, Carolyn’s dirty work?

_I don’t know what you’ve tricked yourself into thinking, but there is nothing between us. No feelings. And you can’t be normal, you’re a psychopath._

There’s a buzzing in her mind. An incessant hum that she can’t mute. It muddles her thoughts. It’s just static, a channel into which she can’t tune.

_Come work for me._

Villanelle closes her eyes. She’s in Rome. Breakfast laid out before her. An earnest look in Aaron’s eyes.

_You’ll get bored with her. You’ll never get bored here. I’ll make sure of it. Neither of us will ever be bored again._

It's not so much that Villanelle feels bored, but rather empty. Her chest is hollow.

_I’ll give you everything._

Her mind wanders. She envisions Aaron’s everything. She sees the carefully constructed murders. The target’s blood under her nails. Crimson pools on the floor. The steady flicker of red as the camera pans in on her, to which Villanelle can only turn and smile. Another artfully crafted assassination filmed for pleasure. She’d collect movies of herself. She would be the star. She’d command Aaron’s attention and her own. She would purchase clothes and nice things for her apartment. Apartments? Aaron would throw money at her, so much so that she would suffocate in riches.

Villanelle opens her eyes. Her bandaged palm rests over her stomach.

Her mind stills. She envisions her everything. Only Eve plays behind her eyes, opened and closed. Eve’s smile. Her laugh. Her _hair_. The curl of her fingers around an afternoon mug of tea. How her palms cradle a glass of wine. The way she walks. Her passion. Obsession. Brilliance.

Villanelle’s head falls back against the tub and she’s lying down again. She wishes it would hurt. She wishes for something aside from this empty aching. It grows by the day and consumes her. Villanelle has nothing to fill it with. Instead, she supplies the hunger with memories of her first nights with Eve. They were much more tender than they are now. Tentative. Thrilling in the sense of exploration, of Eve figuring out what she liked; Eve figuring out what Villanelle liked.

She thinks of Rome. Of the hotel room the evening after Aaron Peel’s murder. The space they shared was confined. Eve climbed into her bed. Eve slid her hands up Villanelle shirt. Eve pressed their mouths together. Villanelle let her, rejoicing when she finally collected what was hers.

Her everything.

But just as she had her, she was gone. 

Eve slipped away, day by day, yet their sessions became more frequent. More urgent. Eve’s hunger gnawed at Villanelle too, and neither appetites could be fully sated. They were starving.

Her chest vibrates. 

> The fucking key won’t work. When will you be home?
> 
> I changed the locks.
> 
> ???
> 
> What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me?
> 
> I’ll ask Carolyn for a copy.
> 
> I told her not to give you one.

Three dots appear indicting typing, but they fade. It’s another two minutes before Villanelle receives a response.

> Where are you? When will you be home?
> 
> Hair appointment. Might be another hour.
> 
> I’m staying the night.
> 
> I can’t do anything with my fingers.
> 
> They’re out of commission.
> 
> Doctors orders.
> 
> But your mouth…? 

The phone drops back to her chest. The bandages on her hands mock her. After the scabbing, there will be traces of thin, white scars all over her knuckles. How clever Eve is, to think of using Villanelle’s mouth when her hands can’t do the job. How clever Eve is to simply use Villanelle.

How clever Eve is to make Villanelle feel like a thing instead of a person.

But Villanelle has never been a person. Always a psychopath. Always a little too off-kilter for everyone’s taste. Always a little off.

How clever Eve is, to make her feel nothing. Like nothing.

The door slams closed from downstairs. Heavy boots thud against the floors. The refrigerator squelches open. Will it be the tea or kombucha? Villanelle waits, listening intently to the shuffling on the first floor. Heavy footfalls thump up the stairs and the bathroom door creaks open. Villanelle lies perfectly still as her target takes a piss.

Two shakes and he flushes, leaving the bathroom without washing his hands. 

Villanelle waits. Fifteen minutes pass before she hears the crash of his body downstairs. She rises from the tub and exits. The big finish, she witnesses as she descends the stairs, is the kombucha bottle on the counter. She pulls the box of tea from the shelf, stashing it away in her pocket, lest Eve were to stumble upon it.

Villanelle walks carefully over the body in the kitchen before pulling out a knife.

She stares down at Niko’s still form.

“No feelings,” she mumbles to herself. She brings the knife down. 

… 

Villanelle recalls her first encounter with money.

When Konstantin handed Villanelle the stack of notes after her first job for the Twelve, she began untying her boots. 

She kept her hands occupied, working the knots out of the laces, so she could not snatch the hefty amount of bills. Sighing, Konstantin dropped them on the coffee table and left after saying job well done. The clap of the door echoed throughout the apartment. Villanelle waited nearly a minute before her head lifted from her boots to the bundle of money. 

Her mouth salivated. 

Laces forgotten, she scooted to the edge of the sofa and collected her payment. She spent the evening turning the bills over in her hands, acquainting herself with the feel of the material, before spending all of it the next day. 

Clothes. All clothes.

Konstantin guffawed when he returned, the postcard in hand forgotten as he sized up the fabrics at the foot of her bed. 

With her second payment, she purchased food. Great food. She went to the most expensive restaurants in Paris, flaunting her wealth. All teeth. All etiquette forgotten. Meals devoured. She found lovers to spend the evening with and bought them great food. She used their bodies to feel and their mouths to suffocate, suppressing the thought of when she didn’t have nice things. Bodies devoured. Appetites sated.

With her third payment, she tried very, very hard not to think of Anna.

And failed.

Blouses flowed through her palms and knee-length skirts were punctured by her nails. All clothes that would compliment Anna’s figure, which appeared more like a ghost in Villanelle’s memories each passing day, grainy and out of focus. The burgundy jewels and gold bracelets were more alive in Villanelle’s imagination than on their stands as she envisioned draping nice things on Anna’s body. Begrudgingly, Villanelle settled on a coat and stashed away the essentials. 

“You should save some of your money,” Konstantin would say.

“Why?”

“Retirement. Finances to take care of yourself when you’re old.”

Villanelle cackled, before asking, “Do you think I will live to be wrinkly one day, Konstantin?”

“I did. It could never hurt to have some lying around. Besides, impulsive buying can’t be good for you. Rewards the brain too much.”

Villanelle puzzled over his words.

The phrase “impulsive buying” turned over and over in her head. She bought things she liked, and she liked a lot of things. Her expensive tastes were never an issue for her budget. Eucalyptus and rose bath oils, canvases from small art galleries, two full sets of copper kitchenware, silk robes with elegant designs. All items she desired, nothing she ever regretted buying. 

And yet, the phrase “impulsive buying” kept ringing with Konstantin’s voice in her head.

Villanelle wonders, as she stares down the gaping maw of the countryside house she recently purchased through Carolyn Martens, if the greasy feeling congealing between her muscles and skin is that of impulsive buying. Oily are her thoughts as they slip from the forefront of her mind down to the base of her skull, and she has trouble recalling why she made this purchase. She wishes for the feeling of anything else, but the mistrust in her decision lingers from the cuticles in her head to the tendons in her back. 

Villanelle rolls back her shoulders to no avail.

She bought a farm.

She recalls her encounter with Carolyn this morning.

“It’s an MI6 safe house of sorts,” said Carolyn. “Owned by Max Sanford the II, who reluctantly retired into assisted living under the advice of medical professionals and his son. Can’t quite butcher meat with shaky hands, can you? Well, I suppose you can, but those would be uneven chops.”

Villanelle twirled a pair of keys in one hand while her eyes flicked over the paperwork she received from Carolyn.

“Do you remember Max?” Carolyn asked. “The third, not the second.”

“I do not know who you’re talking about.”

“You stabbed him. The only survivors from the night you murdered poor Frank.”

Villanelle squinted in thought, but shrugged when she can’t recall the memory.

“How do you decide?” Carolyn asked.

“Decide what?”

“Who lives and who dies?”

“How do you decide?”

“Politics and personal debts, I suppose.”

Villanelle slid the paperwork underneath her arm and stashed the keys in her pocket. Her fingers curled underneath her chin in thought.

“Job-related and those who get in my way, I suppose.”

Carolyn pursed her lips. She interlaced her fingers and folded them neatly on the desk in front of her. Her jaw twitched as she struggled to find the right words. After a minute she said:

“Well, thank you."

“For?” Villanelle asked, arching her eyebrow.

“Not murdering Marnie. She was positively fuming about being stabbed, but I told her it could have been far worse.”

Villanelle shrugged.

“An incision with a piece of broken mirror to the thigh,” continued Carolyn. “Embedded three inches. Almost a proper dagger.”

Villanelle lifted her eyes to Carolyn’s cool gaze.

“Yes, and?”

“Extraordinary. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Face-to-face with an expertly trained assassin and she hobbles away with a stab wound. You had every opportunity to stab her in more lethal locations, with more vital organs.”

Villanelle shrugged once more.

“I should almost thank you for the stabbing,” said Carolyn. “Her ego had gone unchecked for some time during our fencing matches and this will do just the trick to knock her hubris down a few pegs. She’ll be out of practice when she finally recovers.”

“You’re welcome,” mumbled Villanelle.

Carolyn grinned before organizing items on her desk that already seemed quite in order.

“That should be everything I have for you,” said Carolyn. “Any reason for a spontaneous countryside farm purchase?”

Villanelle could say it was the farthest MI5-owned property from Eve, but instead she said:

“Looking to broaden my expertise. Butchering and dismembering bodies seems like an art I have yet to fully explore.

“I do hope you mean animals.”

“Of course, boss.”

“Be mindful of the neighbors. They’re quite loose with boundaries out there. Try not to harm them too terribly.”

“Of course, boss.”

Villanelle shakes her head as one of the movers barrels past her. She huffs, sidestepping him before following the stone pathway toward the two-story, tudor-style farmhouse. The path beneath her feet is overgrown, the foliage and weeds crawling over the cement squares leading up to the doorway. The lower story of the farmhouse is a dark brick before transitioning to timber on the upper level. The windows are tall and narrow, framed in by a pastel blue trim. It’s topped by a gray, false-thatched roof, where a chimney peeks out shyly on the far right side.

Villanelle would consider it quaint, had she not been standing in the light drizzle outside. Hired hands, who are red-faced and sweaty, bustle past, carrying in decor and furniture recently purchased within the past week. She prowls from room to room watching them set items down and then hurry back outside. Her gaze carves over their movements, surveying how they handle her items.

There’s a vibration against her thigh and Villanelle’s hand slides into her pocket. She pulls out her phone to the third missed call from Eve. Sprinkles collect against the screen as another incoming call flashes across it.

Villanelle sighs once before she answers.

“Hello Ev-”

“ _Where are you?_ ” Eve growls through the phone.

“At a farm.”

“ _What are you- you know what? It doesn’t matter. You shaved Niko’s mustache?_ ” Eve screeches. 

Villanelle winces.

“I thought I was being helpful, but halfway through I realized it was a mistake.”

“ _What is wrong with you? You broke into my house, drugged my husband, and assaulted him._ ”

“Admittedly, I was going to leave a little bit of his mustache underneath his nose, but I thought it would be insensitive.”

“ _Insensitive? You thought it would be insensitive? You giving any thought to the situation is remarkable because it’s just insane. This is all insane. You’re insane._ ”

Villanelle’s shoulders drop as she exhales. The scabs on her hands itch.

“Yes, Eve. We have discussed this before.”

There’s heavy breathing on the other end. Villanelle sidesteps one of the movers before sliding inside through the doorway.

“Does he not like the shave? Not my best work. He was lying on the ground, so I couldn’t get a good angle. Konstantin never let me shave-”

“ _He was lying on the fucking ground because you fucking drugged him_ ,” snaps Eve.

“Yes, but he is not dead, so you’re welcome I guess.”

“ _Is that a threat? Do you want a reward for not killing my husband_?”

Villanelle pinches the bridge of her nose.

“No, I do not want a reward. I do not want anything. I think I want you to stop being angry with me, but I do not know how to do that.”

“ _You should have just said that instead of assaulting my husband_.”

“If you recall Eve, I did try to talk with you. You didn’t want to talk with me though. Instead, you shouted at me and called me a psychopath. And before you shout it again, yes, okay, Eve. You already know, so you don’t have to say it.”

“ _I want to hear you say it_.”

“Say what?”

“ _I don’t know. Say you’re sorry. Admit that you’re a psychopath. Have an awareness of anything outside of yourself_.”

Villanelle huffs, shuffling into the kitchen.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“ _Say what_?”

“Sorry. You’ve been a dick, Eve. I don’t know when I became your punching bag, but it’s not fun or sexy.” 

“ _Not everything in life is fun or sexy. Your so-called idealized, world-_ ”

“You seem to assume a lot about my life, Eve. About what I think, how I feel, how I don't feel. You think you know everything, but you don’t. You don’t know shit about me. And you don’t know shit about yourself.”

Eve pauses on the other end. 

“ _What’s that supposed to mean_?”

“What do you want? Honestly. Don’t be a dick about it.”

“ _That’s rich_.”

“I’m serious, Eve,” says Villanelle as she collapses into a chair. She sighs before saying, “Do you like Niko? Do you want to be with him? Do you like your boring life and your boring clothes? What is it about him that you like so much? What is it about me that you don't like? Why do you find it so impossible to include me into your normal life?”

“ _Because you’re not normal_.”

“Are you normal, Eve?”

“ _Where did this ‘include me into your normal life’ even come from? I didn’t even know you cared for normal stuff because you claimed to be so bored with it_.” 

Villanelle straightens. There’s an itch in her gums that makes her feel on edge and she unclenches her teeth. She plucks a kernel of hope from whatever her heart is supposed to be and plants that hope in her words.

“I’m not bored when I’m with you, Eve,” Villanelle admits. She closes her eyes. “I like the idea of normal stuff with you. I would like to come home to you. I would like to cook for you and maybe make the shepherd's pie? I want to go on walks with you and watch movies with you. I want to feel your skin at night and wake up knowing you’ll be there in the morning. And know you’ll be mine.”

Villanelle takes a breath as her eyes slide open.

“Would you like something like that Eve… with me?”

Villanelle’s face feels warm. She waits a beat, before saying:

“Eve?”

When she pulls the phone away from her ear, she sees the call has ended. 

Villanelle furrows her brow. She watches the screen darken before finding her reflection on the black surface.

“I am not sad, I have a happy face,” she says. Her voice does not waver; her person is void of emotion as she sits stock-still in the kitchen. Villanelle sets the phone facedown on the table before mumbling once more, “I am not said, I have a happy face.”

...

The dim lights bathe his face in a warm, sweaty glow. He carries a bottle from the vending machine into the office and resumes his position at his chair. The cap of the bottle cracks as he twists off the lid and takes a swig. His glasses reflect the computer screen, a pulled-up window filled with codes and letters Villanelle can only partially decipher.

Villanelle raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

When Villanelle touches back down in London, she is ready for a nap, but Eve is calling her back into the office. She rubs her face as she walks into the room and is surprised to find Konstantin there too.

"Oh, hello," says Villanelle. 

"How was Stockholm?" Konstantin asks.

"Mildly bright."

Villanelle drops down into the chair. Eve is at her desk, pretending not to notice Villanelle, but her eyes threaten to flick over at any moment. Konstantin sits on another desk just behind her. Both are being particularly quiet.

"So why am I here?" Villanelle asks, gesturing to the rest of the room.

"How did it go?" Eve asks, exhaling the breath she had been holding.

"He is dead."

"Yes, but how did you do it?"

"I shot him once in the back of the head."

"That's it?"

"Well, yes, he was very dead after that."

"Don't you think that it's a bit…" Eve pauses, searching for the right word. "Don't you think it was a bit boring?"

Villanelle frowns. "I don't know."

"There wasn't, you know," says Eve, gesturing with her hand, "a better way to do it? More your style?"

Villanelle's eyebrows pinch together.

"He is very dead." 

"I know, but-"

"What did it feel when you killed him?" Konstantin interjects.

Villanelle's lip pulls away to reveal her teeth as she says, "Nothing."

"Do you know where that man worked, Villanelle? What building you were in?" Konstantin asks. "Do you even know what city you were in?"

Villanelle opens her mouth, but Eve cuts in.

"You didn't feel anything?"

Villanelle looks between the two of them and something inside her deflates. She doesn't know the answers. She doesn't know the answers that would make her pass as family or friend or human, or simply of worth in either of their eyes, so her body deflates in the chair.

"I did not feel anything. I do not know the man's name. And Stockholm, because you said Stockholm, Konstantin. I don't know why all of this matters because you asked me to kill him and he is dead. That is enough for the job.

"I want you to get assessed again," says Konstantin. 

Villanelle sighs, but catches herself on the exhale, switching to a breathy chuckle.

“Why? I am not getting caught. I do jobs as asked. I didn’t kill anyone extra. What is wong?”

“Jerome is here to figure that out,” Konstantin says, matter-of-factly.

Villanelle sits up.

“He is here? Does he not work for the Twelve? It’s oddly suspicious who you associate yourself with, Konstantin.”

“He is an old friend. On occasion he does freelance work as a favor. He is here now setting up.”

Villanelle grits her teeth. A sting of weariness in her eyes. Air doesn’t quite fill her lungs. There’s a twitch starting above her lip that she can’t seem to stop. Her body aches to lie down, but she sits up even straighter, chin raised against Eve and Konstantin. The very Eve and Konstantin who break her down into the simplest pieces. The very Eve and Konstantin who believe she should be measured and labeled, and measured and labeled once again.

Villanelle smiles.

“Excuse me,” she says.

“Where are you going?” Eve asks.

“To the loo, Eve dearest. Would you like to follow and supervise just in case I accidentally murder someone?”

There’s a flash of uncertainty in Eve’s eyes and Villanelle feels her tongue swell up like a boulder in the back of her throat. She turns without answer, marching toward the bathroom, and wondering what she ever did to betray Eve’s trust.

When she arrives, she slams her palms against the sink. Her reflection does the same, appearing irritated and exhausted. Her fingers pull at the dark flesh underneath her eyes, and in the mirror she sees the scabs on her knuckles. Had she known she was being assessed today, she would have brought a change of clothes; she would have slept on the plane. Villanelle brings her hands underneath the faucet, splashing water up to her face and tries to wash out her weariness. 

Villanelle’s shoulders rise as she breathes in. She exhales.

The bathroom door creaks open behind her and when she looks up, she sees Eve in the bathroom mirror. She wears a navy sweater two sizes too large with gray slacks. Her hair is tied back. She seems to be measuring Villanelle with openness and maybe a minute amount of concern, but Villanelle is tired so she is probably misreading her. How long before Eve starts yelling at her? How long before her face scowls?

“Are you…”

And Villanelle tenses. Her fingers freeze; water drips from her nails. The faucet runs.

“Are you alright?” Eve asks.

The air is stale and it feels like years ago. Villanelle slowly reaches for the knob and the water creaks to a halt. She looks at Eve in the mirror with a blank face.

“Yes,” says Villanelle.

“Really?” Eve asks, eyebrows wrinkling together.

“Are you alright?” Villanelle asks.

Eve pinches her lip between her teeth, looking at the tiles on the floor.

“I know I’ve been a bit,” says Eve, gesturing with her hand but not saying anything more to the fact. She swallows. “I’ve been a lot to be around lately. And I just wanted to check in with you.”

Villanelle turns around, rubbing her hands against her pants.

“So was that a yes or no on being alright?”

Eve runs a hand through her curls.

“What did you mean the other day on the phone?” Eve asks. 

Villanelle’s shoulders drop. She finds comfort staring at the beige wall behind Eve’s shoulder.

“It was nothing.”

“Just nothing? The part about wanting normal and boring with--"

"It didn't mean anything," blurts Villanelle before chuckling nervously.

“But you said--”

“I forgot.”

Eve cocks her head to the side. “You forgot what?”

Villanelle laughs, a smile breaking across her face, and she brings her hand up to scratch the back of her neck.

“I guess,” says Villanelle, refusing to look at Eve’s face. Words tumble over her Russian tongue, catching on her teeth, before finally falling out of her mouth. “I forgot it does not mean anything. You said it yourself. There are no feelings between us. It was silly of me to offer to you.”

Villanelle shuffles toward the door, but Eve’s hand catches her wrist.

“Vil, I--” 

“You don’t, Eve. Whatever you are about to say, you don’t… I can’t” says Villanelle as she jerks her arm away. “I can’t do this hot and cold with you. I know you don’t think I have feelings, but I’m not a robot. I…”

But what does she feel? What feelings could _she_ name? Does she have the capacity? What is real and what does she fabricate?

Villanelle’s mouth opens several times without sound. Her thoughts stutter. Her brain disconnects from her body, so her limbs feel out of place. Villanelle shakes her head and turns around, but she sees something unfamiliar in her reflection. Her eyes are wide, roving restlessly over the objects in the bathroom. She can’t make eye contact with herself, but when she turns again, she can’t make eye contact with Eve either.

As her gaze focuses on the tile, she sees Eve’s hands are outstretched near her abdomen. Villanelle snatches them, pushing Eve’s arms at her side.

“Don’t touch me. You've made your choice. This is what you wanted, Eve, and you don’t want me,” says Villanelle, her voice creaking before tapering off. 

Something’s wrong. Her brain is muted, refusing to tell her body what to do next.

_I don’t know what to do._

“What?” Eve asks.

Did she say that out loud?

Villanelle pushes past Eve. Konstantin is waiting in the hallway as she comes charging out.

“All freshened up?” Konstantin asks. His eyes darken when he sees Eve exit. “Are you ready? Did you get everything you needed to out of your system?”

“No,” croaks Villanelle, her voice hoarse. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t talk about anything. We never talk about anything."

Villanelle's hand snakes its way through her hair as she clutches her head.

“Jerome is ready for you.” Konstantin turns and starts down the hallway. He looks over his shoulder expectantly when Villanelle remains frozen.

The length of a blade is cool against Villanelle’s skin when it slides from her sleeve to her palm. 

“Can we do this some other time?” Villanelle asks, her vision slightly fuzzy around the edges.

Her chest pinches; there’s not enough air in her lungs. 

“Jerome flew all the way from…” Konstantin’s words fade as Villanelle’s ears seal off. Reality unhinges itself and the hallway is exceptionally dark. She can’t see Konstantin step toward her, but she holds firmly to the switchblade in hand. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know what her body is doing. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. When did she become a creature of indecision? A creature of want? When did she become so unsure of herself?

She raises the blade, but her face is jerked into a warm embrace. Eve’s palms rest on her cheeks, radiating heat where her thumbs stroke gently just beneath Villanelle’s eyes. The hallway lights brighten sluggishly, but reality focuses into place like a camera’s field of view with herself and Eve at the center.

Villanelle furrows her brow and her mouth hangs open slightly.

“You’re okay,” Eve whispers. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re right here.”

“Eve," says Villanelle tentatively. "Why are you crying?” 

Eve shakes her head slightly.

“You’re okay.”

Villanelle feels Eve’s palms against her cheeks. They’re soft and steady, yet firm. They ground Villanelle in place. The air they share between them becomes one when Villanelle matches Eve’s breathing, to which Eve lets out a sigh of relief.

“You’re okay. Okay?”

Villanelle nods.

Eve sniffs, her eyes slightly red. Her gaze flickers from Villanelle’s face down to the mere inches between them. Villanelle follows her look to see the blade digging into the fabric of Eve’s navy sweater. She doesn’t remember holding it against the other woman, but she languidly brings her hand down.

“I’m sorry,” mumbles Villanelle, an unfamiliar heat in her cheeks.

Eve shakes her head. Her thumbs continue to stroke Villanelle’s face; it’s almost like a trance.

“No. I’m sorry,” Eve says, her voice shaking. She quietly adds, “I’m sorry for stabbing you.”

“Really?” Villanelle asks softly.

Eve chuckles through the tears. 

“I am. I really am. Do you believe me?”

“I just thought I’d never hear you apologize for it.”

Villanelle does not understand the disconnect between her brain and the rest of her body. She does not understand why Jerome is in London to evaluate her yet again. She does not understand what Eve and her were fighting about, but maybe they’ve made up now? Eve’s hands are warm, holding either side of her face. Eve gazes gently up at her. There’s a patient look in her eyes. Villanelle is content to stay in this position forever. Her body sags, a wave of exhaustion hitting her without notice.

Konstantin’s voice calls out from behind them.

“Are you two finished? Jerome has a flight to catch later today.”

“Give us ten minutes,” snaps Eve. 

There’s a fire in Eve’s gaze, directed at Konstantin, but Villanelle shrinks back regardless. She does not want to be on the receiving end of Eve’s bad moods. Not anymore. Konstantin scoffs somewhere behind them, but continues shuffling down the hall. He grumbles in Russian under his breath. Eve’s hands fall to her sides. Villanelle searches between the other woman’s eyes, waiting for the shift. Waiting for the moment where Eve becomes a creature most unkind, but that patient look stays in her eyes.

“Do you want to talk about what happened a little bit ago?” Eve asks.

“My body stopped. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Eve.”

Eve chuckles again, mostly to herself. 

“Yeah, well same. I have no idea what I’m doing either. Neither does Niko, or Elena, or anyone else for that matter, but especially myself.”

“Maybe we could do that together then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we could not know what to do, but with each other?” 

Eve pulls back slightly, contemplating. Villanelle braces herself, but is surprised when Eve says:

“Alright. Unsure together then?”

“Unsure together.”

Something clicks back into place. Relief floods through Villanelle’s system, and she starts in the direction Konstantin headed in. Eve paces slightly behind.

“Was my shave really that bad? Don’t you think it was time for Niko to get rid of his mustache?”

Eve fights the grin on her face, making an effort not to look at Villanelle.

“He looks worse without the mustache.”

“Yes, like even more of a pedophile. Let me guess. The mustache was his job security at the school? Either a mustache or he is not allowed to teach, eh?”

Eve buries her head in her hands and groans, but her shoulders shake from laughter.

When they enter the room together, Villanelle feels lighter than she has in weeks. Jerome sits patiently before an empty chair, so she takes her spot in front of him. Carolyn and Konstantin waver behind. They shoot each other steely looks. Konstantin’s hands are on his hips and he parades around the room, keeping space between Carolyn and himself. Carolyn appears impassive, but there’s a cup of tea in her hands. A full mug, not steaming, so it must have sat for a while after she made it. The air feels crisp with tension, and for once, it’s not between herself and Eve.

“Hello Villanelle,” Jerome greets her, his voice warm.

“Hello Jerome. How are your kids?” Villanelle asks.

He cocks his head slightly. There are more streaks of white in his beard than there are black. The wrinkles on his face appear deeper.

“Why do you think I have kids?”

“Sometimes if you prompt someone, they give you answers.”

“Are you searching for answers in me?” 

“Only the essential ones.” Villanelle smiles. Jerome opens his mouth, but Villanelle cuts him off by nodding towards Carolyn and Konstantin, asking, “What is wrong with you two?”

“Nothing,” Konstantin answers. His voice is deep, ringing with his Russian accent. 

“A lover’s quarrel?”

“Please Villanelle,” says Carolyn. “You have to focus. We only have so much time.”

“I’m feeling generous,” says Villanelle, resting her hand over her heart. “I will offer this time with Jerome to you both, so you can work out your differences.”

Eve shuffles to the back of the room and Villanelle’s gaze trails her movements.

“Why are you feeling generous?” Jerome asks, trying to regain control of the conversation.

“I am not,” admits Villanelle. “I was joking, but the tension between them is palpable.”

“Why are you focussed on them?” Jerome folds one leg over her lap and leans back in his chair.

“Because they’re focussed on me.”

“Would you prefer if they left the room?”

Villanelle makes eye contact with Eve before returning her attention to Jerome.

“No.”

“How are you feeling as of late, Villanelle?”

“Surprised.”

“Surprised that I am here, or?”

“Surprised by all the ways the human body can feel tired,” says Villanelle. She smiles as her hands clasp the edge of the chair between her legs. She leans forward.

“Are you tired?” Jerome asks.

“No, I just said I was surprised. Weren’t you listening?”

“I am sorry. Did something surprising happen to you recently?”

Villanelle pauses, a phantom feeling of Eve’s palms on her cheeks.

“Yes, I purchased a farm.”

Jerome raises his eyebrows.

“And why did you do that?”

“A change of scenery. I wanted to get out of the city for a little bit.”

“Why did you leave the city?”

“It is noisy. People everywhere. Too much going on.”

“If I recall, those were all the things you enjoyed about Paris? Do you not like those things anymore?”

“A lot has changed since Paris.”

“Like what?”

“New job, mmm,” hums Villanelle. She leans back in thought. “New apartment and new house. Wardrobe. A lot of life-threatening injuries to the stomach.”

“How are you feeling about your mortality?”

“Boring. Next question.”

“How do you like your new job?”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you like the people you work for?”

“They’re also fine.”

“Have you worked recently?”

“Yes.”

“How did you kill them?”

“I shot him once in the back of the head.”

“That’s it?”

“He was very dead after that.”

“How do you feel about your job? Are you satisfied?”

“It pays the bills.”

Jerome fiddles with the end of his pantlegs before sliding both feet on the ground.

“What happened in Rome?” Jerome asks. When he turns his head to the side, Villanelle matches the movement.

“I went undercover and sliced Aaron Peel’s throat. He was a dick”

“Even though you were instructed not to kill him?”

“I’m not so sure what my instructions were,” says Villanelle. Her eyes flicker to Carolyn, Konstantin, and Eve, before settling back on Jerome. “A lot of mixed signals.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because he offered me a lot of money and a job. He also asked me to kill Eve.”

“And you refused?”

“Of course.”

“What happened after that?”

Villanelle sighs. “Konstantin said that we were not family and Carolyn exposed her plan to Eve. We met up at another hotel slightly outside of the city. The decor was boring and I did not understand how it was rated five stars. Eve and I had really great sex in a twin bed that night, where we started our physical affair and she began cheating on her husband.”

“How do you feel about Rome?”

“This almost feels like an interview. You’re just glossing over the details and firing questions.”

“Unfortunately, I am on a bit of a time crunch. So for today’s session, it is about quantity over quality. How do you feel about Rome?”

“Boring.”

“How do you feel about Eve?”

“Also boring.”

“Really?”

“There are no feelings between us. She told me that.”

“And you believe her? Because she told you? How do you feel about the situation?”

“I feel…” begins Villanelle, but her brain comes to a halt. She looks to Eve briefly before zeroing in on Jerome. “I feel nothing.”

“What does it mean to you that you feel nothing?” Jerome asks. He squints as he studies her.

“I just don’t. There is nothing to feel. I wake up. I do my job, what is asked of me. And then I go to bed.”

“What do you do for yourself?”

“I buy things.”

“Like the farm?”

“Yes.”

“Do you associate the feeling of boredom with nothing?”

It feels like a trick question, so Villanelle cocks her head to the other side.

“Yes. They’re the same.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Villanelle huffs before crossing her arms.

“The same thing happens all the time, whether I put effort in or not. It’s become boring. It feels annoying to care about things if the same thing happens, so I’d rather feel nothing than something.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s easier.”

“So you make the conscious choice to, in your words, to feel nothing?’”

Villanelle frowns. 

“I don’t know?"

Jerome nods, seemingly appeased by that answer.

“Do you still have dreams about Anna?”

Villanelle squints, looks to Eve, then back to Jerome who’s watched the whole exchange.

“Sometimes.”

Jerome asks, this time in Russian, “ _Do you have dreams about Eve_?”

“ _Sometimes_ ,” she answers, also in Russian.

“ _If you didn’t make the conscious choice to feel nothing, how would you feel about Eve_?”

“ _Everything_.”

“ _What does everything mean to you? If nothing makes you feel bored, how does everything make you feel_?”

“ _Alive_.”

“ _Does Eve make you feel alive_?”

“ _Yes and no. It’s complicated. Sometimes it’s good, but sometimes_ ,” Villanelle pauses. Images resurface with her Russian tongue, so she switches. “It’s not so good. I am unsure what it means a lot of the time.

“ _So you’re a romantic_ ,” says Jerome.

“We’re getting off topic,” bellows Konstantin from behind. “Get on with it.”

“What is your diagnosis?” Carolyn asks quietly.

“I think she is depressed,” says Jerome.

“Yes, but is she fine enough to participate in the Ghrisham operation?” Carolyn asks.

Jerome scowls, a look just for Villanelle since the rest were to his backside.

“I won’t sign her off.”

“See, I told you,” snaps Konstantin, pointing a finger in Carolyn’s direction.

“Gloating doesn’t look good on you Konstantin,” says Carolyn. “It makes you appear bloated and fat.”

“I told you she was not in good health. You rushed her into work after she was shot, and she’s not ready.”

Eve shuffles from the back of the room, coming beside Jerome’s chair.

“Can she… feel depressed?” Eve asks. 

Jerome rolls his eyes. He rubs his face with his hands before standing.

“I don’t think I have jurisdiction within British Intelligence, so I don’t believe I have the authority to tell you what she can and can’t do. I don’t know in what capacity you’re choosing to work with her Carolyn, but I strongly advise against it, whatever your plans are,” says Jerome. He crosses his arms. “You should all consider giving Villanelle space. I bet that she does not do well being micromanaged and if you keep gatekeeping her feelings, you will limit her opportunity for growth. I imagine it can be quite exhausting when people make assumptions of your feelings.”

“It is,” says Villanelle, nodding sagely. 

Carolyn takes a long sip from her lukewarm tea.

“Is there any instance in which you would approve, Jerome? Perhaps we can operate off your previous suggestion?” Carolyn asks.

“It’s only if Villanelle agrees. It’s only if she wants to.”

“Only if I want what?” Villanelle asks.

“Would you like to start seeing me on a regular basis, VIllanelle?” Jerome asks. “I could provide a counseling service to you, which may not be readily accessible for a person such as yourself in other therapeutic spaces.”

“If I do this, will everyone stop making comments about my psychopathy?”

“Water all under the bridge,” murmurs Carolyn. “Already forgotten.”

Konstantin measures her with a steely glance.

Eve shuffles from one foot to another, but nods.

“Okay. I will try this service.”

“In the meantime Villanelle, I suggest relaxing before you return to work. Do things at this new farm of yours that makes you feel at home.”

“Cunnilingus.” 

“Excuse me?”

“Silk sheets and cunnilingus, Jerome,” says Villanelle, walking up to him and patting his shoulder. “Silk sheets and cunnilingus.”

…

Villanelle sets the groceries down on the counter before rounding table where the kitchen box set rests. A blade slips out of her sleeve, fitting neatly between her fingers, and she runs it down the length of the tape. She opens the box and gingerly pulls out the stainless steel culinary set. She sets aside the two frying pans and several sauce pans with their respective covers. She pulls the dutch oven from the box, removing the plastic and padding. 

Villanelle hums as her hands slide over the sleek surface, ghosting over the shiny, copper handles. She runs cool water into the dutch oven before placing it on the stove. She brings the water to a simmer then adds small pieces of fish, carrots, onions, a few peppercorns, and two bay leaves. 

She clicks her tongue once before placing the cover over the warming broth.

Villanelle unpacks the rest of the culinary set, removing the wrappings and stashing them in the trash. One pot is left out on a burner. 

She lifts the cover and stirs the broth, watching the food disintegrate where the spoon carves through the water. The liquid in the pot takes on a light amber hue. Oily patches bubble up throughout the broth. Villanelle sets the lid once more and returns her attention to the groceries. 

An onion, potato, and two carrots sit poised on the wood cutting board. She pulls a large knife from the drawer; her gaze catches how it gleams under the kitchen lights. Something stirs in her chest and Villanelle is reminded of the pain at her side from where she’d been shot. A similar phantom pain nudges the other side of her abdomen, but she shakes her head and makes quick work of the vegetables before her.

The blade slices cleanly through the carrots, slapping the cutting board at even intervals. It’s almost trance-inducing and Villanelle wills herself to work faster. The knife comes down at the end of the carrot and Villanelle jerks her hand away, inspecting her fingers. There’s no blood.

_There’s no blood_ , but Villanelle grunts as she starts on the onion.

_There’s no blood_ , but Villanelle is crying. The onion juices sting her eyes, a feeling she would usually fight, but instead the tears slide down her cheek freely. She chuckles for a moment, bringing up the hand holding the knife and uses her knuckles to swipe at her face.

_There’s no blood_ , but when she dices up the potatoes, bile rises in the back of her throat. The cubes are far more uneven than she remembers. There’s a pinch at her bottom lip where her teeth nearly draw blood. The cubes are so uneven that she swipes them onto the counter and pulls a second potato from the grocery bag. She clenches her teeth and her lip twitches.

For some reason, the onion juices linger in the air and the evidence stains Villanelle’s cheeks. _Pathetic. Dumb._

_There was never any blood_ , she remembers.

Villanelle grabs the olive oil, holding it by the neck and drizzling it over the bottom of the other pot. She dangles handful of onions in her palm and flips them into the pot. She spoons the bottom, the onions caramelizing to a brilliant almond brown. She adds the carrots and while she waits for them to soften, she strains the broth and removes the debris clinging to the bottom of the dutch oven.

She pours the stock slowly into the other pot, the broth sloshing around and stirring up the onions and carrots. Water, the second batch of uneven potato cubes, bay leaves, and black peppercorns trickle into the broth. Salt collects in the palm of her hand before she flicks it into the pot too, and covers the boiling liquid with a lid.

Villanelle pulls the fish from the grocery bag and removes its wrappings. She pulls at the skin, silver scales flake over the cutting board. The scent of fish fills the kitchen, staining her hands as she makes quick work of cutting it into cubes. For some reason, she has a far easier time slicing the meat into even shapes as opposed to the potatoes. She purchased cod and salmon, so both sets of fish cubes drop into the broth after fifteen minutes of simmering. 

Villanelle starts around the kitchen. She packs away the remaining groceries into the fridge. The dutch oven soaks in the sink, where Villanelle will clean it eventually. She stirs the soup occasionally, careful not to overcook the fish lest it becomes rubbery.

The soup is ready soon enough. Villanelle pours out a hefty bowl, spooning in more fish chunks than broth, before she carries herself outside to the wrap-around porch. There’s a swinging chair that appears safe enough, so Villanelle sits down gingerly and it creaks under her weight. She pulls her legs up, sitting cross-legged, and lets the ceramic bowl burn against her calf. 

It’s surprisingly quiet. The other homes where Villanelle has rested her head at night were usually accompanied by pedestrians talking outside the window, vehicles grumbling by, or the chatter of prison guards at all hours. The light drizzle lulls seamlessly into the peace of the early evening. A greying haze settles over the lush fields, yet in the distance the clouds break for the sunlight spilling down from the heavens. 

Villanelle exhales. She spoons the soup into her mouth and chews thoughtfully as her eyes close. For a moment, she allows herself to go back. Her thoughts stitch together memories of Prim. The small house and the cold floorboards. The wind cutting through the creases in the walls. On the rare occasions where there was a home-cooked meal, the floor before the oven would be warm and she would nest there as a matter of principle. 

Oksana would stare, unabashed. She was not chided, or scolded, or psychopathed then. Not in front of the oven. She just was. And she could look, wide-eyed and curious. She just watched.

_There was never any blood_ , she remembers, _but she died anyway._

Villanelle springs from her thoughts, eyes snapping open. The haze from the afternoon clears up, and yet a certain fogginess hangs in her vision. 

There’s a movement off to her right on the porch. She’s on her feet. The blade from her sleeve is drawn and the bowl of soup shoved off onto the swinging chair.

“Oh,” says Villanelle. “You are lucky I do not have a gun.”

A cat with fur the shade of clouds bounds over the porch stopping a few feet away, tail snapping in the air and hairs bristling. 

“You look like minced steak. What happened to your face?”

A scar runs vertically over the cat's left eye, where the lid droops slightly and the tip of its ear is missing from the same side. The other eye, a slate blue, watches Villanelle carefully.

Villanelle swings the blade in front of the cat, who considers her with a bored expression. She makes a kicking motion. The cat simply hisses in reply.

“Yeah, well fuck you too,” says Villanelle.

She sits on the swinging chair while the cat sniffs the air. She pulls the bowl into her lap, where a little broth remains.

“Are you hungry, you little shit? Is this what you want?” 

Villanelle counts the ribs of the cat before placing the bowl on the ground. The cat springs forward, lapping away at the rest of the soup. The blade presses into the spine of the cat while it eats. Villanelle contemplates, but huffs as she sits back in the chair.

“When I was a child, I used to skin pets like you all the time.”

Purring reverberates from the creature at her feet. 

“Whatever. It’s your funeral if you stay.”

There’s a satisfying smacking of lips as the cat lifts its head. The purring continues as it looks up to Villanelle.

“It’s ukha. Someone advised that I try to make this place feel at home as much as possible," she says, crossing her arms. “My mother used to make this dish.”

The cat rubs against her legs and Villanelle sighs.

“I think someone has fed you before. You are awfully domestic for as feral as you look.”

One eye blinks up at Villanelle.

“I’m going to call you Alaska, okay?”

Alaska blinks again and continues to purr.

“Okay, good.”


End file.
